


The Camera Tells Secondhand Lies

by SummerFrost



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Reality Show, Cameras, Dry Humping, Enemies to Lovers, Ensemble Cast, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Flashbacks, Food Issues, Homophobia, Light dom/sub undertones, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Outing, Outing without consent, Pining, Polyamory Negotiations, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Public Sex, Reality Show - Big Brother Celebrity Edition, Restricted food options, Sexual Tension, Sharing a Bed, everywhere all the time, hyperbolic humor about death/suicide, like really public, shit gets real
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-14
Updated: 2017-08-09
Packaged: 2018-11-14 03:24:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 36,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11199471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SummerFrost/pseuds/SummerFrost
Summary: The camera never lies--but Kent and Bitty aren't telling it the truth.





	1. Episode One

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! I have many notes.
> 
> This story is fully written and currently being edited, and the fic will update in weekly "episodes" every Wednesday evening until its completion!
> 
> The show in this fic is based off a celebrity edition of Big Brother (specifically the American version). You don't need to be familiar with the show to enjoy the fic, but you can read a little bit about it [here](http://bigbrother.wikia.com/wiki/Big_Brother_Wiki) and [here](https://www.reddit.com/r/BigBrother/wiki/faq?compact=true) if you want! Note that I did take some creative liberties when designing my version.
> 
> The overarching warnings/content tags for the fic are already posted. I will update chapter-specific tags as the chapters are posted, and provide detailed descriptions in my author's notes. There are no Archive Warnings in this fic, and I consider my other content warnings to be relatively mild. However, if you have concerns before reading, you can send me an ask or a message [on my Tumblr](yoursummerfrost.tumblr.com) and I can discuss content warnings with you!
> 
> Finally, thank you to my amazing friends, all of whom beta'd, cheerread, and provided general advice in some capacity: shipped-goldstandard, blithelybonny, abominableobriens, and polyamorousparson <3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more note (that I forgot to add in here at first whoops): This is an AU where Jack never went to Samwell!
> 
> See the endnotes for elaboration on the content warning: **food issues**

“Just don’t do anything stupid, eh Kenny?”

“Zimms.” Kent laughs, and if he keeps Jack trapped in a hug a little longer than necessary, that’s really no one’s business. “When have I ever done something stupid?”

Jack snorts and chirps, “You’ll miss your flight if I start a list.”

“Get on the plane with me,” Kent says instead of chirping back, and finally makes himself pull away. “I’m sure they’d find a way to put you on the show.”

He gets a dismissive eyebrow raise in response. “I’ve spent enough time around cameras, thanks.”

“So you hate cameras more than you’re gonna miss me, huh? I see how it is.” Kent is, as usual, only half-joking, and Jack is, as usual, essentially unaware of this fact.

“Yes,” he answers, but he shoves Kent’s shoulder like it doesn’t actually matter. “By far. Besides, you volunteered for the show, Kenny.”

Kent smirks. “Free vacation, Zimms.”

“You own a beach house, asshole. _I_ own a beach house.”

“You’re inviting me over, then?” Kent waggles his eyebrows and winks for good measure.

Jack rolls his eyes. “No. Now get on the fucking plane.”

“I’ll miss you too, Zimms.”

 

~*~

 

Kent stands in the foyer of a moderately impressive house, taking in the weird-ass décor that he’s gonna have to stare at for (hopefully) like twelve weeks. The place is all bright colors and kitschy shit like giant chairs in the shape of dice and weird clocks and—it makes him like, uncomfortably nostalgic for Vegas. Ugh.

They’re being sent into the house in groups, so he and a couple other people—celebrities, apparently, but no one he recognizes, and he has no idea if they know who he is either—start wandering through the house looking for bedrooms to claim.

Upstairs, Kent snags a bed near the window out of habit—years of claiming the hotel bed closer to the wall will do that to you—and flinches when a massive hand claps him on the back.

“Kent Parson! You’re smaller in person, man, holy shit.”

Kent turns and finds himself face to chest with a fucking hulk of a dude with a beanie partially obscuring shoulder-length dreadlocks, someone who must’ve come in with the second group of contestants. He literally tilts his face up to say, “Uh, no fuckin’ offense but does anyone _not_ look small to you, dude?”

A—really fucking cute, not that Kent’s looking—blond guy in the corner snorts, glancing over with something that approaches curiosity before he turns back to unpacking his duffel bag into a dresser. Giant Hulk Man laughs and holds out his hand for a bro-shake. “Jamal Bryant—Packers.”

Okay, yeah, football makes sense. Kent smirks and pats Jamal on the arm as he says, “Oh, yeah? Sweet, sorry I didn’t recognize you, man.”

“It’s cool, bro. We can’t all be the face of the franchise, yeah?” Jamal turns to the side and starts tossing his clothes haphazardly into the dresser he’s apparently sharing with Kent which like, doesn’t make Kent’s eye twitch or anything. “You training while you’re here?”

“Uh, yeah, bulking,” Kent answers. “If you wanna—”

Kent’s offer to be workout buddies dies on his tongue because Jesus fuck, fucking Annie Azuma walks into the room and nearly brains herself on the door when she catches sight of Kent, which, yeah—he’d be doing the same if he wasn’t literally sitting down and not moving at all. Shit, is Kent part of some cosmic fucking joke? Is this one of those reality TV show twists where they tracked down _everyone’s_ secret ex to make them squirm because seriously, they really _could’ve_ found room for Jack, and—

“Hey, Kent,” Annie says.

Kent, not Kenny. Which means yeah, they’re playing this cool—or trying to, which Kent is fucking up spectacularly by staring at her and saying literally nothing.

“Annie!” Kent manages, in a voice that probably doesn’t sound strangled and hysterical to anyone who doesn’t know him. Annie narrows her eyes, because she does. “What’re the chances, yeah?”

He gets up and crosses the room to meet her in a quick hug that definitely doesn’t betray the fact that the last time they were in the same room together it ended with her spitting out, _‘Have fun in Providence,’_ with a tone that implied she was putting a curse on him and all of his future cats.

So, that’s progress.

Annie hums with false pleasantry and asks, “How’s Providence been?” in that syrup-sweet voice that’s practically a sensory memory at this point, and Kent has to forcefully contain the apprehensive shiver running down his spine.

Blond Guy snorts again, like he recognizes the tone, but when he walks over he’s grinning brightly. “Annie Azuma? Oh, my gosh, I _loved_ your last album! I hope that’s not awkward to say.”

“No, that’s so sweet! You look familiar—are you on YouTube?” Annie asks, and Kent takes the opportunity to flee immediately. He’s not sure if Blond Guy—currently introducing himself as ‘Bitty’—rescued him on purpose or not, but Kent definitely owes him a fucking beer or something.

Jamal whistles right in Kent’s ear when he walks back over and tries to finish unpacking, asking, “Shit, man, you know her?”

“Uh, kind of?” Kent says ambiguously, resisting the urge to retort _yeah, biblically,_ because that would definitely make him an asshole, even if it is—in his opinion, anyway—funny as hell and like _right there._ “What happens in Vegas, and all that shit.”

“I bet,” Jamal answers with a lecherous edge to his voice—like there’s some secret he and Kent share by virtue of staring at the same hot girl, which makes Kent like vaguely uncomfortable even though it’s nothing he’s not used to hearing—and he probably kind of invited it, even if he was just being flippant.

By this point all of their fellow contestants are in the house and settled in a little, though Kent hasn’t seen them all—there’s at least three bedrooms, from what he saw on his rapid-fire tour—and they sort of make a hive-mind decision to shuffle downstairs and gather around the big TV, spreading out across a giant sectional that somehow still barely manages to house all fourteen of them.

Someone says they should go around and introduce themselves and the charities they’re playing for—because apparently you’re never too old or too famous for a good old fashioned ice breaker—and Kent immediately goes into Gala Mode trying to remember everyone’s names so he doesn’t look like a dick later.

There’s Jamal, obviously, who’s playing for a charity that makes sports equipment more accessible in low-income neighborhoods, which—sweet. Kent should talk to him about Little Aces at some point. Erika and Sarah are both reality TV stars, but they came from different shows, and Kent is only a little worried he’ll forget who is who, and Cody is an ‘adult film star,’ which is a hilarious way of putting it. Kent tries not to think too hard if he’s seen anything Cody is in—probably not, because Kent likes feminist porn better anyway and Cody seems more mainstream, which—okay, Kent should probably stop thinking about porn.

Annie is on Kent’s right, so he has time to sort-of tune out her speech about the women’s shelters she helped create—not because it isn’t fucking awesome, it’s just that he was around when she founded them so he kind of knows the deal already—and think about what he’s gonna say.

“Uh, hey,” Kent says when it’s his turn. “I’m Kent. I play in the NHL for the Providence Falconers, uh—as of last year, anyway. And my charity is You Can Play, which is promoting diversity and inclusion in sports. It’s, uh, been pretty important to me for a long time.”

“Right on,” Jamal tells him, stretching across the coffee table to give Kent a fistbump.

The cute blond guy from before is on Kent’s other side, tapping his foot rapidly while he waits to talk. He’s got the same sunny grin on his face he had when he introduced himself to Annie and his voice is rich and Southern. “Hey, y’all! I’m Eric Bittle, but most of my friends still call me Bitty. I got my start on YouTube in college, but I just got my own show on Food Network and, Lord, that’s been so great. Um, anyway—” he turns to look at Kent, the curve of his lips softening a little “—I’m actually playing for You Can Play, too.”

Huh. “No shit, man, really?” Kent asks, subconsciously leaning into Eric—Bitty’s?—space a little, because—well, because Kent is fucking weak and Bitty has this energy about him that makes Kent want to lick a stripe across his jaw. “What sport?”

Bitty laughs and chirps, “Are you askin’ if I’m a fan?” Before Kent can come up with an answer that doesn’t sound too much like he’d jump this guy’s bones if they weren’t on camera and in front of twelve other people, Bitty goes on to explain, “I played some hockey in college, yeah. I’ve always been more of a Zimmermann fan myself, though. No offense.”

Annie snorts, probably half because she’s thinking _yeah, Kent’s a Zimmermann fan too,_ and half because she knows Cute but a Little Shit is Kent’s exact type and he’s fucked. Kent resists the urge to kick her in the shin.

“Guess it’s a good thing you can cheer for us both now, huh?” Kent tells Bitty, partly because he thinks it’ll sting Annie a little and yeah, he’s kinda still a dick. But it’s also worth it for the way Bitty’s cheeks turn a little pink, and—

Fuck, okay. Kent should probably stop fucking flirting with this dude on semi-live television.

“So like,” some guy who hasn’t been introduced yet asks, “was it weird being token gay dude on your team or?”

Three things happen at basically the same time: Kent’s hands curl into fists, Annie stomps on Kent’s foot to keep him from doing whatever stupid thing he’s considering, and Bitty forces out a viscerally familiar, tinny laugh.

“Wow, do you want a play-by-play of how stupid what you just said is, or like, the highlights?” Kent asks bitingly, because Annie has no power over him anymore and he has three months to heal from a broken foot before the pre-season starts anyway.

Bitty surreptitiously leans away from the arm Kent has thrown around the back of the sofa, something Kent wouldn’t even have noticed if his neck hadn’t brushed against Kent’s hand in the process.

“Woah, dude, chill out,” Stupid Asshole says, hands up in the air. “I was just joking around, seriously.”

Kent starts, “Yeah, well it wasn’t—”

“It’s fine, it’s fine—seriously, y’all,” Bitty cuts in, voice light and smile wooden. “And besides, if anythin’ I was the token Southerner.” He winks cheekily. “That’s what college in Massachusetts gets you, anyway.”

Annie grinds her heel into Kent’s foot and Kent deflates, shooting a final sharp look at the guy across the couch before brooding at the coffee table. It’s covered with neon-colored coasters.

“Uh, anyway,” the guy next to Bitty says awkwardly, “I’m Greg. I was a defense attorney from the Brightbill Case.”

“So if you end up murdering Roman you should give him a call, Kent,” a woman adds drily, pushing a pair of hipster glasses up the bridge of her nose. She looks familiar, which means Kent’s probably seen her on TV. Her comment nets a collection of nervous laughter that seems to cut the tension, even if Kent is still bristling at Stupid Asshole Apparently Named Roman.

Greg clears his throat. “Haha. Sure. Anyway, I’m playing for the ACLU for—well, probably obvious reasons.”

The introductions continue. Glasses Woman is a stand-up comedian named Jessica; Stupid Asshole Apparently Named Roman is an actor on some show on Netflix Kent hasn’t had time to watch and won’t make time to now—because, sue him, he’s a petty fucker and at least he’s honest with himself about it.

The group rounds out with Virginia Mack (a model Kent is only a little obsessed with, okay?), a younger woman named Vienna who’s some kind of TV personality, an author named AJ—which, Kent still can’t tell if that’s her real name or a pen name—and a journalist named Aaron who—kind of terrifyingly—has Tater’s personality smushed up in a 5’5” body with a Boston accent.

As soon as introductions are over, the giant TV switches on, which Kent would find creepy if he wasn’t already painfully aware that they’re being watched by a production crew at literally all times.

Julie greets them brightly, “Hello everyone! For the next three months I’ll be communicating with you from this screen. You may have noticed that the kitchen is stocked only with ingredients for peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.”

A muscle jumps in Bitty’s jaw. Kent definitely does not think fondly of Jack Zimmermann.

“Tonight you’ll get the chance to compete for groceries. If you succeed, you’ll get food for the week. If you fail…it’s peanut butter and jelly for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. But that’s not all you’re competing for,” Julie continues. “You’ll also be competing to be the first Head of Household—or HoH—the most powerful person in the Big Brother House.”

“Yikes,” Aaron says, “so serious already, Julie.”

Julie laughs alongside the chuckles from the contestants and agrees, “It is serious. If you win HoH, you won’t be going home this week. But you will have to nominate two of your fellow housemates for eviction.”

Kent rubs at his eyebrows and tries to act like they didn’t have all these rules explained to them before they even showed up at the house; he knows they’re being repeated for the sake of viewers who might be new to the show, but it still feels—jarringly fake. He wonders if he’ll ever stop feeling like he’s performing, at least a little. It’s like the longest media soundbite of his career.

“Plus, you’ll move into the luxurious Head of Household suite—trust me, that alone is worth competing for.” Julie pauses for dramatic effect. Jamal makes eye contact with Kent and waggles his eyebrows at him, and Kent smirks back. “Now, houseguests, I need you to divide into two teams of seven for the competition—one group on each side of the couch.”

There’s some brief squabbling, and Kent ends up on the same team as Jamal but opposing both Bitty and Annie. They change into their swimsuits for the competition—which is a production in and of itself for the housemates who aren’t, you know, used to stripping down in front of people all the time. Kent and Jamal shuck their clothes efficiently—so does Bitty, not that Kent is kind of looking or anything—and are some of the first downstairs to the backyard.

While the stragglers trickle down, Kent takes in the setup for the competition, which apparently involves the pool and giant-ass fake coconut trees. Once everyone’s outside, they learn the goal is to work together to shoot coconuts into basketball hoops from giant surfboards in the water. The team who makes more baskets will win food and compete for HoH.

“Looks like we chose the wrong sports, huh?” Jamal quips, nudging Kent with an elbow.

Kent laughs while they hop into the pool and climb up onto the surfboards. “Yeah, I guess so.”

They lose the competition, which isn’t really that surprising, because Kent overhead Sarah bragging that she played basketball in college. It’s not like they get completely creamed or anything, so Kent isn’t that pissed about it, but he’s not really thrilled about having to eat fucking sandwiches for every meal all week. Like, gross.

He wonders if protein shakes count as a beverage or a meal. Hm.

While Kent is contemplating whether or not he can get away with his protein scheme, idly watching the other team compete for HoH—apparently by seeing who can balance on the stupid surfboard the longest—Jamal sits down next to him on the patio.

“Think they’re strategizing up there?” he asks.

Kent shrugs. “Uh, probably. I would be.”

He can tell from the cadence of their voices that they’re having some kind of conversation, but most of what’s being said is too quiet to actually pick out, which—yeah, that’s kinda suspicious. They’re probably bargaining about letting someone win or voting together or something.

“We should get everyone back together, figure something out,” Jamal says, eyes still fixed on the other team. “You seem like a good bro—I’d work with you.”

“Dude, same,” Kent agrees, offering up a fistbump. “You gotta be my workout buddy anyway, yeah? My trainer’s gonna kill me if I don’t put weight back on.”

Jamal laughs and slaps his stomach; he’s bulky as fuck—way bigger than even Tater—but clearly fit. “Can’t relate.”

Kent snorts, and they head inside to strategize.

 

~*~

 

Later that night, after Virginia’s won Head of Household and they’ve all toured her—really impressive, Jesus—bedroom suite, Kent is chilling in the kitchen making his second pb&j of the day, because fuck calorie loading and fuck this stupid game already.

Bitty comes up behind Kent and clears his throat, stretching to grab a pie tin from the cabinet above Kent’s head after Kent moves out of the way.

“Oh, hey,” Kent says. “Baking?”

“Mhm,” Bitty hums, setting the tin to the side and hefting a brand new bag of flour onto the counter. “I can’t really settle in a place ‘till I’ve used the kitchen. I get an itch about it, you know?”

Kent nods and twists the lid back onto the jar of peanut butter he was using. “Uh, yeah. I get that way about rinks but, like, probably a less common occurrence for me, I guess.”

“Well, sure, ‘cause you’ve played in so many,” Bitty chirps, eyes glinting a little before he turns back to the rapidly growing mountain of ingredients on the counter. “How’s the pb&j treating you?”

Kent thunks his head onto the counter and groans. “Ugh, oh my God. I eat these like, three times a week during the season anyway so I thought—won’t be that bad, right? Wrong. I think I’ve literally trained my body to pump full of adrenaline after eating this shit.”

Bitty chuckles. “Pre-game ritual, right?”

“Yeah, since I was a kid, with—”

“Jack Zimmermann, I know,” Bitty supplies smugly. “I’ve seen the Falconers’ Face-offs.”

Kent doesn’t fix his eyes on the way Bitty’s forearms flex when he mixes whatever dough he’s making. Kent stares at his sandwich and smears jelly onto the bread. “Wow, you really are a fan, huh?”

“Blame my mother. I think she’s still in love with Bad Bob.”

Kent laughs and decidedly does not mention the awkward crush he had on Bob Zimmermann as a teenager, before it transferred—much more appropriately—to his son. “Her and like, half of America.”

“And two-thirds of Canada?” Bitty jokes, lips curled into a smirk.

Kent just chuckles and finishes making his sandwich, carefully slicing it into triangles before he stores the jelly back in the fridge. There’s a not-quite-easy silence that Kent breaks by saying, through a mouthful of sandwich, “Uh, sorry about earlier, by the way.”

“Oh, you’re fine,” Bitty answers, waving his hand dismissively, which kind of sounds like—

“Wait,” Kent says suspiciously, narrowing his eyes a little, “I know _I’m_ fine. That was like, a sympathetic ‘sorry that guy was a dick.’”

Bitty concedes, “Yeah, right,” and Kent swears to fucking God he catches an eye roll before Bitty turns away.

“What the fuck should I be apologizing for?” Kent asks, and yeah, he’s kind of getting testy about it, but sue him, it hasn’t been a great day.

There’s a tense line across Bitty’s back, and Kent should be too annoyed to find the pull of his tank top between his shoulder blades attractive but—well, here they are. Bitty scrubs a hand over his face and says, “Not everythin’ needs to be made into a scene, you know. I got enough of that brand of allyship in college.”

 _Right._ Because Kent definitely doesn’t have a personal interest in people not spouting homophobia or anything. He digs his teeth into his tongue to clamp down on the words—the countless equally deeply fucking satisfying and idiotic retorts he could make that need to, you know, stay off national television.

“Great,” Kent says slowly, to have something to do with his mouth. “Well, I’m actively _not_ sorry about doing whatever the fuck you think I was, so there’s that. Have fun breaking in the kitchen.”

He dumps his plate and silverware into the sink without washing them and stalks off before Bittle can retort, a heat rising to his face that he isn’t sure if he should pin on anger or embarrassment.

 

~*~

 

Annie snores. Kent has to pretend to be surprised like everyone else.

 

~*~

 

The next day starts busy. Virginia puts Roman and Cody up for elimination, and it’s announced the veto competition—where some of the houseguests will compete to win the right to save one of the two nominees from the chopping block—will be tomorrow. If Roman or Cody gets saved, Julie explains, Virginia has to nominate someone new.

After that, Kent gets pulled for a talking head. They ask him his impressions of his fellow competitors so far—Jamal is his bro, Roman is a dick, Bittle is…something—and about the confrontation yesterday before the HoH competition. Kent’s in media mode, or some bastardized form of it anyway, and he’s got no idea how much they’ll end up airing. Hopefully he doesn’t sound like too much of an asshole.

He meets up with Jamal in the gym after that and talks shop a little before they get to working out, just to nail down a routine and weight limits. The gym is pretty fantastic—better than he was expecting, even though his agent (and Jamal’s, he’s sure) negotiated equipment for him before he agreed to the show. Kent knows from binging previous seasons it’s not usually this nice, anyway, and he’s glad he’s not gonna actually fuck himself over for the season by not staying in shape.

“So, I guess I don’t gotta ask who you’re voting for if the veto’s not used,” Jamal chirps, breath puffing as he rests between sets at the bench press.

Kent laughs awkwardly. “Uh, yeah, guess not. I think we can get the votes if we—”

He pauses when the door swings open and Bittle walks in looking pensive, dressed in a muscle tank and a pair of—wow, really fucking tiny, _fuck_ —shorts. Bittle waves a quick hello and hops on the treadmill, which means—great, Kent’s gonna have to avoid staring at his ass while he runs on the thing.

Jamal understands the strategy talk is over, apparently—Bittle was on the wrong surfboard yesterday, and it’s pretty clear some lines have been drawn based on that. But it’s not like Kent told him about the weird sniping match they got into last night, so there’s no reason he’d know not to bring up, “It was chill what you did yesterday, by the way.”

Bittle ups the speed on the treadmill. Kent helps Jamal add weight to the bar for this next set and says, “Uh, yeah, thanks. I mean, I don’t tolerate that shit in my locker room, I’m not gonna start now.”

“Hell yeah, man.” Jamal starts his set but talks through the reps, clearly in workout-gossip mode. “It’s shit like that that starts changing stuff, you know? Not just like, with the gay thing, but—someone’s gotta be that guy.”

Bittle looks over with a pinched expression and dodges making eye contact with Kent before turning away again, and Kent rubs a hand over his face. “Yeah, no, for sure.”

Jamal finishes his set and says, “Alright, Parse, you’re up.”

Kent grins while he slides weights back off the bar. “Parse, huh?”

“D’you not like that one?” Jamal asks.

The Falconers have taken to calling him Parsley after an embarrassing dinner party mishap last fall. Kent decides not to share that information. “Parse is great,” he says, looking over in time to catch the twitch of a smirk on Bittle’s face.

Whatever.

 

~*~

 

Vienna wins the veto competition and uses it to save Roman, so Virginia nominates Greg instead. In a few days, the whole house will vote to decide which one of them goes home. Kent’s busy griping about it to Jamal and Jessica over a pitcher of margaritas when Sarah, Aaron, and Bittle amble over to join them near the pool.

“Sup, guys?” Kent asks, gesturing with the margarita pitcher in offering.

Aaron and Bittle quickly accept, but Sarah declines, “Ugh, no thanks. I just popped, like, so much Motrin—I’m so sore from doing that obstacle course?”

Kent frowns, watching her stretch and wince when her shoulder pulls. “Want me to work that out for you? I’m great at massages.”

Her face brightens immediately, a big smile and eager eyes. “Oh my God, would you? You’re _literally_ an angel, Kent.”

“Yeah,” Aaron chirps as Sarah settles between Kent’s thighs in the Adirondack chair, “he’s very self-sacrificing.”

And, yeah, okay—Sarah’s pretty hot, in the stereotypical, All-American girl kinda way, with long blonde hair and freckles and nice tits—and she’s actually, like, really sweet. Probably too sweet to get along with Kent, because he’s kind of an asshole and he kinda goes for people who can dish it back at him a little.

But he’s not exactly complaining about how closely she presses up against him when he starts working at the knot in her shoulders, even if that’s legitimately not why he offered.

Her skin is warm under his hands, tan with a pink sunburn on top that radiates heat, but the muscles are hard underneath and yeah, he can tell why she’s sore. “You’re so tense,” he mutters, teasing. “Who hurt you, baby?”

She laughs and jabs accusingly, _“Aaron_ did, making me try and keep up with him all stupid competition.”

“Hey! Maybe I’m sore too, huh? Anyone thinka that?” Aaron gripes back, a hand thrown dramatically against his forehead.

Jessica pushes up into a sitting position on her towel and makes grabby hands at him. “I got you, boo. C’mere.”

Kent chuckles while Aaron shuffles over to Jessica with a pleased groan and works harder at a stubborn knot between Sarah’s shoulder blades.

“Oh, God, that’s the stuff.” Aaron makes another vaguely pornographic sound. “See, Sarah, you’re missin’ out ‘cause chicks give the best massages.”

Sarah laughs, and Kent snorts, retorting, “You haven’t met my trainer. Dude had magic fucking hands.”

“You get massaged by a dude?” Aaron asks, like he’s genuinely surprised or something.

“Uh, yeah,” Kent says, fighting to keep his tone light, “’cause fragile masculinity is stupid as shit and also I have bad calves.”

“We’ll keep that in mind next HoH competition,” Jessica deadpans, and Jamal laughs.

“Like his Achilles’ heel, except half his fucking legs.”

Kent dramatically thunks his head against the back of Sarah’s shoulder; she reaches around and pets his hair in sympathy. “You guys suck.”

They banter a few more minutes while Kent finishes massaging Sarah, and then he looks over at Bittle, who’s been pretty quiet while he sips on a margarita.

Kent’s had like, a lot of tequila and he’s feeling kind of flirty, and everyone’s in swimsuits so Bittle is shirtless and showing off his lean frame—the kind of body you get from a good workout schedule and a better metabolism—and like, yeah, maybe Bittle’s the one Kent wants an excuse to be touching.

“Bittle, you want next?” Kent offers with a smirk, wiggling his fingers at him. He winks and jokes salaciously, “I’ve got soft hands.”

Bittle pushes his sunglasses up his face, probably to make sure Kent can see how utterly unimpressed he is, and remarks drily, “I’m sure.”

Jessica snickers. Kent waggles his eyebrows and asks, “Is that a no?”

Bittle drops his sunglasses back into place, grabs his margarita, and walks away.

“Ouch!” Kent calls after him, pride only smarting a little when everyone laughs. Fine, fuck Bittle.

Or like, don’t, probably.

“Aww, I’ll be your next victim, Kent!” Erika shouts from across the pool.

Kent throws his arms open wide in invitation. “C’mon over, babe!”

Sarah shifts to the foot of the chair to make room for Erika, who throws her hair up in a ponytail as she walks over and takes Sarah’s spot. She sighs happily when Kent digs his fingers into her muscles, prompting a round of suggestive chirps and jokes from the group.

Kent only thinks about Bittle a little.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **food issues** : As part of the show, Big Brother, sometimes houseguests will be restricted in the food they're allowed to eat if they lose competitions. Issues with eating won't be described in depth, but Kent will sometimes think about how his restricted diet is harming his ability to get in shape for his upcoming season, and other houseguests will also complain about not wanting to eat the food. If this concerns you, read with caution, and feel free to contact me for more information.


	2. Episode Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See the endnote for details on the content warning: **outing without consent**

Annie corners Kent right before the eviction vote, when everyone’s ambling down the stairs and starting to congregate in the living room.

“Dude,” she asks, yanking him back into a bedroom, “what’s up with you and Bitty?”

Kent looks up at the cameras mounted around the room. They air the eviction ceremony on live television so there’s probably no one watching the 24 hour streams online right now—but that doesn’t mean production won’t air this footage later anyway. “Uh, nothing?”

“You’ve been a jerk to him literally all week,” she counters. Her nails dig into Kent’s wrist a little, which is honestly just a cheap fucking move.

Kent narrows his eyes, fights a losing battle against the petulant itch under his skin. “Well what’s his deal with me? Since you’re like best fuckin’ friends now, or something.”

Annie scoffs but doesn’t argue it—it’s not like her alliance with Bitty or the rest of their group is a secret. She drops Kent’s hand and runs her own through her hair; Kent wonders how she’s gonna keep up the bubblegum pink dye job all summer, remembers lazy, anonymous afternoons in salons, relishing how much more famous she was than him.

And how far away all that feels—it’s not the point, but it stings anyway, and he rubs at the faint crescent marks on his wrist.

“He doesn’t talk about you,” Annie tells him.

“Sounds fake,” Kent says. He manages a smirk and brushes past her, eyes fixed ahead as he ends the conversation. “Everyone talks about me.”

 

~*~

 

They vote out AJ, hug her goodbye in the foyer, and then get immediately thrown into the next HoH competition. Virginia can’t win twice in a row so she hosts the weird game show thing they play, laughing at their dumb answers and, ultimately, handing the key to the HoH suite to Jessica when she wins.

Like last week, everyone herds upstairs to check out the room once it’s customized for Jessica—with her favorite snacks and letters from her family, which definitely doesn’t make Kent jealous—except this time Kent lingers with her, Jamal, and Aaron to strategize after the crowd thins out. The suite has a king bed that everyone sprawls on except for Jamal, who takes a seat in a giant bean bag chair nearby.

Jess is building a little pile of pistachio shells next to her thigh as she works through the bag, and Kent has to fight the urge to start stacking them into a tower or some shit like that—which, like, he knows that’s a pretty fucking weird thing to do but he likes having something to do with his hands, and it makes him miss Jack for some reason—this vague, weird memory of being a teenager and wanting busy hands but having nothing to put in them.

“Kent, what do you think?” Aaron asks, pulling Kent’s attention back.

“Uh.” Kent scrubs a hand over his face. “What?”

Jamal laughs. “We’re that boring, huh Parse?”

“Sorry, sorry,” Kent apologizes. “What’s up?”

Jess kicks the side of his knee with her foot. “I was saying we should put up Vienna with Roman. People like her more but not enough to get pissed about her being nominated.”

Kent grabs at her foot and tickles at the arch until she twists away, then agrees, “Oh, yeah, that sounds great. If we put up Sarah or Erika or someone it’d be like, poking the bear, you know?”

“Plus Kent wants to get laid,” Aaron adds, snickering.

Kent says, “Uh.”

“C’mon, man,” Jamal prods with a grin, “those chicks are all over you. You can’t tell me you’re not tryna get in on that.”

“Kent just flirts with anything with tits—he’s all talk,” Jess chirps. She pinches Kent’s cheek. “Ain’t that right, sweetie?”

“Yeah,” Kent agrees, swatting her hand away. “I’ve got a delicate image as Hockey’s Prettiest Bachelor to maintain. What’re you ugly fuckers’ excuses?”

Jamal laughs again, lifting the hand he had resting on his stomach to flash a ring.  _ “Very  _ happily married to a woman who knows how to kill me and hide the body. Which, now that you’ve asked me about my wife—”

Aaron rolls off the bed with his arms thrown up in defeat. “Oh God, nope—no—I’m not listening to your sappy love stories again, man. Peace.”

Jamal flips him off as he leaves, but he’s still smiling when he turns back to Jess and Kent. The moment lingers in awkward silence for a second, until Kent grins and asks, “So how’d you meet your wife?”

Jamal looks so genuinely fucking pleased it’s almost impossible for Kent to feel bitterly jealous.

 

~*~

 

The entire house competes as a team to win food this week and ends up with a really weird combination of groceries they’re allowed to request—Kent should be annoyed that they didn’t get vegetables, but mostly he’s just pissed no one will shut the fuck up about how good Bittle’s pies are now that everyone can eat them.

“Kent, you  _ have  _ to try a slice,” Erika moans around a forkful. “Seriously, c’mon.”

Kent sighs and makes grabby hands at the pie tin, serving himself a piece with a dramatic pout. And like, he  _ knows  _ he’s being petty about it, but fucking sue him, okay? It’s been a long week and a half without Twitter to vague on.

He practically shoves a bite into his mouth while Erika watches and prompts, “Well?”

There might be some fucking angels singing or something, it’s actually kind of hard to tell. Kent mutters, “I’ve had better pie.”

“I’ve got a strawberry crème in the fridge, if that’s more your taste,” Bittle’s dripping-sweet voice rings out from behind him, because of fucking course it does.

Kent digs his thumb into the edge of his fork and laughs. “Uh, I’ll stick with the one that won’t kill me, but thanks.”

Bittle walks around the kitchen island to smile woodenly from a shorter distance away. “Excuse me?”

“I’m allergic,” Kent explains, maybe more smugly than he should feel. “To strawberries, I mean. So, yeah, I’ll stick with pecan, but thanks.”

“Oh, well—” Bittle says briskly, pulling the pie out anyway, because apparently he’s going to eat it right in front of Kent out of spite or something. “I guess then it’s an extra shame you’ve got bad taste in  _ pecan.” _

Kent raises an eyebrow and asks, “What, ‘cause yours is supposed to be the best?”

Bittle shrugs with obviously-faked humility as he cuts himself a slice. “Most people seem to think so.”

“Maybe I just know what I like.” Kent smirks and flashes him a smoldering look from under his eyelashes.

Bittle snorts, but Kent doesn’t miss the color rising to his cheeks. “Maybe you’re not as charming as you think you are.”

“Mm,” Kent hums, slinging an arm around the back of Erika’s chair and winking at her. “I think I do alright.”

It’s less gratifying than he expects when Erika laughs and leans into his space, and Kent works pretty fucking hard to convince himself that it doesn’t have anything to do with the dark flash in Bittle’s eyes.

 

~*~

 

Jessica chooses Kent to play in the veto competition with her—neither of them win, but it’s better than having to watch the whole time. Sarah takes the competition, and it’s hard to tell if she’ll use it to save anyone or not, but Kent isn’t that worried about it. He showers to get the chlorine out of his hair and then heads back downstairs to chill with some of the other houseguests before the ceremony happens that night.

He’s playing Coaster Toss—which, he really thought it’d take them more than ten days to go crazy enough to invent their own games and shit, but whatever—with Erika, Vienna, Cody, and Virginia when Bittle flops onto the sectional with a dramatic groan.

Virginia hums and squeezes Bittle’s ankle. “What’s up, boo?”

“I am so  _ bored,”  _ Bittle whines, shifting grumpily to dangle his head over the edge of a cushion. “And you know? I never realized how quiet everything is without music.”

Erika furrows her eyebrows. “There’s like, thirteen people in this house. It’s  _ never  _ quiet.”

“It’s not the same,” Bittle insists, and—yeah, Kent sympathizes with that a little too well, actually.

He misses being crammed in summer houses with his teammates. Which isn’t, like, a thing he’d ever say out  _ loud,  _ but—hockey players are always  _ touching  _ each other, shoving and wrestling and half in each other’s laps when they stuff the couches on movie night—and Kent’s basically so fucking touch-starved he could cry.

Which is one of many reasons why this is gonna be a long fucking summer. Kent tosses a coaster onto the table sullenly.

“No, I feel you, bro,” Jamal tells Bittle as he’s coming down the stairs to join them. “It’s like—a whole other level. You want the consistent noise—like a locker room.”

“I plead the fifth on that comparison,” Bittle drawls, lips twitching.

Erika tosses her coaster onto the table; it lands on top of Kent’s which negates his score. Uncool.

“You miss your team though?” Jamal asks, taking a seat at the sectional. “It’s like, unreal for me—thinking about not playing anymore, you know?”

Bittle’s jaw clenches a little. His voice is sunny. “Oh, well—I kept myself busy enough I think! I don’t know where I’d even find the time these days.”

Virginia teases, “Got better things to do than mess with smelly hockey players, right?” pointedly elbowing Kent.

Bittle laughs and Kent makes a big show of putting a hand to his chest in offense. “Uh, excuse you,” he insists, “I don’t  _ smell.  _ I’m a fucking treasure who uses soap and everything.”

“Mhm.” Erika leans over and brushes a hand through Kent’s hair, fingernails tickling pleasantly against his scalp. “Someone even taught you how to use  _ conditioner.” _

Kent responds with a throaty, eager hum, leaning into the contact and sighing when she obliges and starts to play with his hair.

“It’s sad you make that sound like a compliment,” Bittle remarks drily, rolling his eyes. “Jocks.”

_ “You’re  _ a jock!” Kent argues, probably sounding more irritated than he meant to, at approximately the same time Jamal points out, “Didn’t you say you lived in your team’s frat house?”

“Yeah, and I when I found ‘em they had a whole cabinet full of Sriracha.” Bittle snorts. “Hand to God, I think they were eatin’ it by itself.”

Kent smirks and starts, “You know—”

“Oh my God, no,” Bittle cuts in. “I refuse to let you finish that sentence, Parson.”

Kent cackles, falling back against Erika, who shrieks and shoves him off. “You’re  _ heavy,  _ Kent!”

Jamal grins. “Is he?”

“Fuck off, man,” Kent shoots back. He winks at Erika and flexes a bicep. “I’m five-foot, ten inches of solid muscle.”

Bittle’s smile is wicked when he chirps, “Nine and a half, accordin’ to ESPN.”

“Aww, baby, you know my stats?” Kent coos at Bittle and flutters his eyelashes. “I’m flattered.”

Bittle’s smile loses something around the edges—becomes more like a baring of teeth—and it’s like the flip of a fucking switch the way he shutters off from Kent again, and it stings in a way it really fucking shouldn’t, because fuck Bittle, but—

Literally what the fuck is his problem?

The conversation drifts into other topics, but Kent’s soured to it, even though Erika’s back to playing with his hair and pressing up against his side—so when Bittle gets up to leave, Kent follows him.

He catches Bittle near the stairs, keeps his voice as even as he can when he asks, “Hey, so, like—what the fuck is your problem with me?”

Bittle flinches—which maybe Kent feels a little bad about. But then he turns to Kent with a smile plastered on his face, lies, “I don’t have a problem with you,” and makes to head up the stairs like the conversation is fucking over.

Kent blocks his path. “Bullshit.”

They’re practically chest to chest. Bittle juts his chin out in defiance, eyes flicking from side to side like he’s calculating something, and takes a step back. He says, “I’m not doing this here,” then turns on his heels and marches down the bathroom hallway.

Which—okay. The bathrooms are the only places in the house that aren’t on film, so—Kent’s not  _ that  _ surprised Bittle is leading him there, even if he’s kind of annoyed. He’s also kind of worried they’ll get yelled at by production because it was made pretty clear they aren’t supposed to talk off-camera on purpose, but—whatever.

Bittle leans up against the doorframe, arms crossed—defensive. He glares up at Kent and asks, “What makes you think I’ve got a problem with you?”

Kent opens his mouth to answer, but apparently it was rhetorical because Bittle holds up a hand to cut him off and continues sharply, “Because I won’t fawn all over your ‘cool straight guy’ routine? I’m not impressed enough with you  _ magnanimously  _ flirting with the gay guy like you—get a gold star for it or something?”

Kent barks out a laugh. His blood is roiling under his skin, singeing his veins, and he has to constrict his throat to keep his voice down when he spits, “You don’t know a fucking thing about me.”

“I know your type,” Bittle counters. His voice is shaking and there are hot, angry tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. “It’s all some great production for you—you make a big show of how secure you are or whatever, like I should be grateful you haven’t fucking locked me in the broom closet—that you look at me and touch me and I—I’m  _ not. _ Leave me out of your goddamn show.”

“Jesus Christ,” Kent whispers. He’s—he can’t even fucking begin to unpack that, and he’s got no idea what to fucking  _ say,  _ caught between sympathy and the aching bitterness still throbbing in his bones and he wants to make something  _ hurt  _ like he hasn’t in years but—not like this, to Bittle, and there’s nowhere else to put it. “I’m not—you have no fucking idea—”

“It took me years and years to—to not have to hide who I am,” Bittle says, and some of the bite’s gone out of it but he’s still furious underneath. “And you come around here like—like—”

“Some of us still don’t have the  _ luxury _ —” Kent snaps, tongue flicking around the words before he can stop himself and—

Shit.

Bittle’s eyes widen in sudden understanding and a hand goes up to his mouth—which Kent would maybe find comical except for the way Bittle whispers, “You asshole. You—you fucking, giant— _ asshole,”  _ and fists a hand in Kent’s shirt before he surges forward and kisses him.

Okay, it’s less like a kiss and more like being punched in the mouth with another mouth, but—Kent’s kind of into it anyway. He grabs at Bittle’s ass, and Bittle fists a hand in his hair hard enough to hurt—and Kent’s so into  _ that  _ he curses emphatically while he lifts Bittle off the ground and presses him up against the doorframe.

Bittle wraps his legs vice-tight around Kent’s waist, pulling him flush against his body and hitching his hips and—fuck, Christ, Kent ruts against him shamelessly, kissing and nipping roughly to bruise up that pretty mouth of his and shivering when Bittle moans.

Kent has Bittle lifted above him a little, and it’s the perfect angle to scrape his teeth against the underside of Bittle’s jaw so he does, pausing to suck at a sensitive spot that makes Bittle squirm.

Bittle pants, “No marks,” and Kent mutters, “Fucking duh,” into the damp skin, and it’s a fucking shame because he’d look pretty fucking good with a hickey or two toning down all that sweet Southern charm bullshit. Kent can picture it—closes his eyes and thinks about mottled purple bruises on Bittle’s neck, straddling the jut of the collarbones he’s always showing off in his tank tops, all casual like he doesn’t know they were made to lick tequila-salt off of.

“So what, you’re into me now?” Kent asks, chasing friction on his dick with a roll of his hips. Fuck, he’s so hard and Bittle kisses like he knows Kent wants it to hurt—like  _ he  _ wants it to hurt—and he’s not a teenager who comes in his fucking pants anymore but it’ll be a close thing if someone doesn’t put a hand on his dick pretty soon.

“You’re still a dick,” Bittle answers, head thrown back and fingers curling in Kent’s hair. “Just, you know—oh, Lord,  _ fuck—” _

Kent looks up with a smirk, chirp already forming in his head, except—

Bittle’s not looking at Kent, he’s—

Looking at Frank. Who’s holding a camera right at them and has been for God fucking knows how long and—

_ Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck no this isn’t happening this can’t— _

Kent swallows down the bile rising in his throat and asks, “How much does it take to make this go away?”

Frank looks around nervously, like a second camera might appear out of nowhere. He doesn’t answer.

“How  _ much?”  _ Kent repeats, voice going higher-pitched and frantic. “How—fucking—I’ll pay you whatever you want, Frank, I swear to fucking God but you can’t—”

“I can’t talk to you—”

“You—you can’t fucking air this,” Kent splutters. Bittle coughs, prods him with a heel, and—fuck, Kent’s still got him trapped against the wall. He takes a step back and lets Bittle slide to the ground.

“Look, man, I can’t talk to you,” Frank repeats, more insistently. “I just film what I see.”

He scurries off and Kent shouts after him, “You can’t fucking air this, Frank!” even though it’s probably useless, but— _ fuck. _

Bittle points out, un-fucking-necessarily, “I’m pretty sure he can.” His voice isn’t as gloating as it could be. Which, small victories.

“ _ Fuck! _ ” Kent stalks into the bathroom and comes pretty fucking close to shattering the mirror with his fist. It’s not like his luck could get any worse, right? “Fuck,” he repeats, quieter this time. He sinks down to the ground and shoves his fingers into his hair. “What am I gonna—what the fuck am I gonna do?”

Bittle peeks out into the hallway like he’s considering pulling a Frank and bolting. Then he mutters something about Jesus under his breath, steps farther inside, and shuts the door behind him.

Kent looks up at him. Five years ago, he’d probably be shouting at Bittle right now, blaming him for the impending clusterfuck that is now his life. But at twenty-nine, after a fuckload of therapy, Kent’s temper has cooled a bit and he’s mostly just in a resigned panic.

“It’s not like I hadn’t thought about coming out,” Kent explains wearily. “It’s just, like,  _ fuck _ —it’s not like being outed on national television ‘cause I almost fucked some sorta-famous guy—no offense—that I don’t even  _ like _ was high on my list of ways.”

“None taken, but bless your heart, I gotta point out I have more Twitter followers than you.” Bittle sinks to the ground next to Kent; their knees knock together and neither of them bothers to move away.

Kent rolls his eyes. “Whatever, so totally not the fucking point. It’s just—you get how fucking shitty this looks for me, right?”

Bittle scoffs, “Not just for  _ you. _ What makes you think my fans—my  _ parents _ —will take kindly to their sweet Southern baker sucking face with the NHL’s biggest playboy? My—my  _ mother  _ watches this show and I just—”

“At least you came out on your own terms,” Kent snaps, because fucking  _ seriously?  _ “There’s a fucking cosmic difference in scale here. And also—fuck you, I’m a fucking catch.”

“Sure.” Bittle snorts. He hesitates a second, though, and his face softens a little. “But you’re—okay, fine, I’m sorry, I—the handheld cameras aren’t hooked up to the livestream, I don’t think. And maybe they won’t air it?”

Kent closes his eyes and pretends there aren’t tears under his lashes. “Maybe. Or maybe I’m the NHL’s first certified cocksucker. Some fucking way to do it.”

Bittle chews on his lip and starts to agree, “Yeah, some—”

He freezes. He has that look in his eye that he gets when he’s figured out a puzzle—not that Kent’s been watching Bittle’s face during the competitions. That would be weird. “Shit, that’s it.”

“Uh, what?” Kent is too tired for this vague shit. He wants to curl up in his stupid, shitty, non-Tempurpedic bed and sleep through the next two and half months. So much for having a fun off-season.

Bittle sighs and pulls Kent to his feet, ushering him towards the door. “Look, I’m only doing this ‘cause being outed like that is awful and no one deserves it, okay?”

“Doing  _ what? _ ”

Bittle rolls his eyes. “You don’t wanna come out ‘cause you hate-fucked some guy, and I don’t particularly want people thinking I’m the kinda boy who sleeps around—so let’s play house, Parson. Give them a better  _ story  _ to air.”

“Okay,” Kent says slowly, “like, full fucking offense, but you’re making zero percent sense right now.”

Bittle sighs again, extra dramatically this time, and puts his hands on Kent’s shoulders. “I’m saying—what’s the better story? ‘Kent Parson has gross bathroom sex with fellow contestant because he’s a giant slut—’”

“Uh, rude—”

“—or ‘Kent Parson, hopeless romantic, refuses to hide relationship with fellow contestant?’”

“You—you want to pretend we’re—dating? For the rest of the show? Isn’t that…?” Kent doesn’t know how to finish that sentence without sounding like the stupid Boy Scout he definitely never was and would honestly be a fucking moron to suddenly pretend to be now.

“Mr. Parson.” Bittle laughs, with a breathlessness that is almost definitely faked and Kent doesn’t even care. “Don’t you know there’s nothing real about reality TV anyway? They’ll take it and run.”

He leans in close and sinks his teeth into Kent’s earlobe before whispering, “If you’re in, come find me out on the deck. Have something sweet to say. I don’t put out for rude boys.”

Which, according to the hard-on Kent remembers being pressed against his thigh like ten minutes ago, is a fucking lie, and Kent smacks Bittle’s ass on the way out the door just to prove he knows it. Bittle huffs and shoots Kent an exaggerated look of exasperation over his shoulder.

The door clicks shut behind him and Kent contemplates drowning himself in the sink.

In the end, that seems like a lot of fucking work and it’d mess up his hair, so he shrugs to himself in the mirror and snags a bottle of wine on the way to the backyard.

 

~*~

 

The thing is, Kent isn’t actually that great of a liar. Everyone assumes he is, because he’s pretty fucking good at getting what he wants in like, any situation (except threatening the cameraman, apparently), but that isn’t his style. Kent is just good at filtering whatever parts of himself he wants people to see. It’s not lying; it’s just the selective presentation of Kent Parson, NHL star, super into sleeping with ladies, definitely best bros with Jack Zimmermann.

So Kent isn’t really sure how he’s gonna get through lying, essentially twenty-four/seven, about his feelings for Eric Bittle. But well, if he’s being honest with himself, it’s not like their whole feud wasn’t played up a little bit for the ratings, at least on Kent’s end. Bittle’s probably a nice guy when he isn’t being passive-aggressive as shit and just  _ daring _ Kent to say something about it. So what the hell, he can probably make it work. If he can figure out how to believably out himself on camera for a second time, that’s somehow better than the first way. Fucking hell.

Bittle is sprawled in the hammock, soaking up the last of the sun for the day, when Kent finds him. There’s a camerawoman camped out under a tree, and Bittle’s in full view of the livestream cameras mounted to the house. Kent fiddles with his mic self-consciously.

“Hey, uh—” 

Bittle gets up to leave as soon as Kent starts talking, a thin frown on his face. What the fuck? 

“No, wait, can we—?” Kent gestures with the wine glasses and bottle, “I wanna talk to you.”

Bittle sighs and pulls his sunglasses off, pinches the bridge of his nose. “What is it, Parson? I’m tryin’ to enjoy my evenin’.” And okay, Kent gets that there are cameras everywhere and he has to pretend they  _ haven’t _ already done the making out part, but  _ what the fuck? _

“I just, uh—” Kent had made a little speech in his head, like he does before he goes out to talk to the media after a game, but the reporters don’t usually stare at him like they want to throw him into the pool, so excuse him for being a little caught off guard, alright? “Um, I wanted to apologize? ‘Cause like, I feel like we, uh, got off on the wrong foot and I’ve kinda been a dick, so. Yeah.”

Bittle stares at him for so long, Kent is starting to worry this was all some elaborate prank and he’s about to be hung out to dry. But finally, he answers, “Apology accepted, Kent. Thank you.” He makes a grabby motion at the wine and scoots down the oversized hammock, patting the space next to him. Kent uncorks the bottle and pours them each a glass; he drains half of his, refills it, then reclines on the hammock. Bittle takes a long sip and asks, “So what’s the other foot?”

“Uh, what?”

He expects an eyeroll, but Bittle just smirks at him. “What’re you like when you’re not bein’ a jerk?”

“Oh, I’m pretty much always an asshole.” Kent smirks too and nudges him with an elbow. “I’m just usually, like, the fun asshole.” Bittle snorts and nudges him back, leaving their forearms pressed together afterwards. His skin is warm and Kent shifts to knock their shoulders together too.

A silence settles for a few moments as they drink, before Bittle fidgets and asks, “So what’s a ‘fun’ guy like you do when you’re not playin’ hockey?”

Kent laughs and downs the rest of his glass. “Don’t you read the tabloids? They know my whole story.”

“You know, funnily enough I don’t think that’s true,” Bittle teases while Kent refills their wine.

“Shocker.” Kent chuckles. “Well, I do spend a lot more time with my cat than people seem to think.”

Bittle snickers. “You take her to bars?”

“Of course not!” Kent protests, with mock offense. “She’s underage. We mostly watch reality TV and eat ice cream—” he breaks into a stage whisper, “don’t tell my nutritionist.”

Bittle whispers back, “My lips are sealed,” with a grin stretched across his face. “What’s your favorite show?”

Kent wonders if talking to Bittle is always this easy. He figures it probably doesn’t matter, though. “Real Housewives, no contest.”

“Orange County?”

“Hell yeah.” Kent shuts his eyes, lets the wine buzz around in his head. When he opens them again, Bittle is staring at him, his eyes intense and warm. His face feels closer than before, and Kent takes in the way his lips are just the slightest bit parted, tongue peeking out like an invitation. He leans in a little and feels Bittle’s fingers brush against his thigh. “Which one of us you think has more freckles?”

Bittle giggles and holds the distance between them while he takes another drink. “Dunno. Let’s count.” His face turns to one of intense concentration; it reminds Kent, somehow, of Zimms’ face right before a shootout, except for the way Bittle’s lips move as he murmurs the numbers softly to himself. Jack always purses his lips.

“Fourteen,” Kent says, punctuating the statement with a long sip of wine.

Bittle scrunches his nose up in response, and fuck if that isn’t adorable. “Seriously? I’ve counted over thirty already.”

Kent smirks. “Guess I win, huh?”

“I didn’t know we were competin’.” The sun is starting to set, casting a glimmer over the pool and brightening Bittle’s eyes.

“Only ‘cause I won.”

Bittle rolls his eyes at that and then drops his gaze to Kent’s smirk. His eyes flick back up, pupils a little thick from the wine and the dimming light. Kent leans in closer, close enough to smell the wine on Bittle’s breath, close enough that kissing could maybe even feel like an accident.

When he was eighteen, Kent Parson kissed Jack Zimmermann in an empty locker room in Rimouski. He was stone-cold sober unless you count the adrenaline high that came from playing the best damn hockey of his life. (Most people would guess Kent has one of his Stanley wins as his favorite hockey memory; they’d be wrong).

Now, Kent is more than a little tipsy and not nearly half as brave as he was as a teenager. He reaches past Bittle and plucks a clover flower off the ground as the hammock sways, skimming his fingers through the still-warm grass. When he comes back up, resting on his side with his weight on a forearm, he tucks the flower behind Bittle’s ear, garnering an amused eyebrow raise and a crooked smile.

“Consolation prize,” he explains, and laughs softly at himself. His fingers graze down Bittle’s jaw.

Bittle chirps, “So I gotta give you something then?”

“Uh—”

Bittle kisses him. It’s a sluggish lunge, like how the second hand on the clock seems to tick slower if it’s being watched. It feels deliberately impulsive and Bittle’s lips are plump and soft with wine and it’s over before Kent can kiss him back.

“Oh, Lord, I—” Bittle throws a hand over his mouth with a gasp. “I’m so sorry, that was—I shouldn’t—you’re probably not—”

“No, I—” Kent cups the side of his face and takes just a moment to consider how entirely fucking outmatched he is by this guy, “I’m into it.” He pulls Bittle in, traces the line of his bottom lip with his thumb, then follows the same path with the tip of his tongue. Bittle hums appreciatively, like he’s  _ surprised _ by the whole thing somehow, and they’re kissing again, a hand curled in Kent’s hair, fingers tightened in the back of Bittle’s shirt, bodies curling in to press thighs together. The clover flower tickles against Kent’s temple.

It goes like this: the perfect PG-13 make out session, no skin but hands on places just risqué enough to hint at the heat behind it, tongues darting between mouths quickly enough that it could be a trick of the light. Kent isn’t really hard, but maybe he’d be getting there if this was real. Before there was hair pulling and the sinking of teeth and ass grabbing, and it’s not like Kent isn’t into the slow build, but this is crafted—sickeningly sweet—and it kills him that this is what Bittle wants the world to see because it’s a fucking shadow of a thing when before they blistered in the heat of it.

He bites his own lip and Bittle whispers, “Careful,” lower than the mic can probably pick up, so he presses his face into Bittle’s neck. He’s sure it’ll look tender on camera, a nice moment, a gentle nuzzle in awe of this new, soft thing they’ve found. He bites as hard as he can get away with, and the fingers in his hair tighten perfectly.

When he brings his face back up, Bittle is smiling. He smirks back and leans back in for another round of too-gentle kisses, his lips not even tender from the effort.

They pull away when voices drift over and the sliding door creaks open. It’s Jamal and Jessica, toting beers and a football. 

Kent whispers, “Whatcha wanna do?”

“Every season needs a power couple,” Bittle whispers back, and he winks but leans away, gives Kent an out in case he wants to hide from their housemates. But Kent is used to all in—it’s gotten so that he finds the commitment comforting.

So he chases Bittle’s lips again and tries not to panic when Jamal, unsubtly, says, “Holy shit,” and Jessica makes a dramatic gasping noise, and asks himself,  _ what’s a house full of people when it’s already the world?  _

The thought isn’t all that comforting, and all it does it make his stomach twist.

“Oh! Hi, y’all.” Bittle pulls away, looking momentarily flustered but smiling brightly soon enough. “Gonna throw the ball around?”

“Um, yeah,” Jessica says, fiddling idly with the football in her hands. Her nails are hot pink and Kent is pretty sure they were teal yesterday, but maybe he’s just seeing things at this point. “Do you…wanna join us?”

Bittle smiles and sits up, his hand trailing across the back of Kent’s neck while they untangle. “Sure. You comin’, honey?”

It takes Kent a second to realize that, duh, Bittle was talking to him. “Oh, uh, nah. I’m shit at football—I’d probably accidentally lob it onto the roof or something.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” Bittle laughs, “it’s cute you think you could throw it that far,” and kisses him on the cheek before standing, stretching out his joints. He strolls over to the others and catches Jamal’s perfectly spiraled pass effortlessly. Kent pours himself a fresh glass of wine and watches Bittle, pointedly avoiding the puzzled glances both Jamal and Jessica shoot his way.

 

~*~

 

After the veto ceremony—where Sarah decides not to use the Power of Veto and keeps Roman and Vienna on the chopping block—Kent gets pulled for a talking head in the diary room, which—yeah, not surprising.

They start off with some softball questions about the veto ceremony and other houseguests and shit, which really just makes Kent more fidgety and freaked the fuck out. His heart is making a pretty solid effort at beating out of his chest and he showered, like, three hours ago, but he’s already sweating and—fuck, it’s really starting to sink in and—

“So, Kent,” the producer, Karen, says, “we’d be remiss to not ask you to talk about Bitty.”

“Uh.”

“The kiss? On the deck? You two seem to have a blossoming romance,” she prompts.

Kent stares at her, and she stares back unblinking, which is creepy as fuck. She doesn’t mention the bathroom.

“You’re officially the first out player in the NHL. How does that feel?”

Kent closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, opens them again. “Uh, yeah. I—it’s—I mean, it’s kind of terrifying. There’s—my team, management—they’re all great, but you see a lot of stuff on Twitter, the media—not everyone is—there’s a reason why I’m the first, why it took so long.”

Kent pauses, fights the urge to scrub a hand over his face. He spreads his arms instead, in challenge. “But, look—I’ve won three Stanley Cups, Olympic gold, Worlds—and I won them all queer, and I’m tired of hiding who I am. Fucking take me or leave me.”

“So—was this intentional? Were you planning on making this statement on the show?”

“Uh, no.” Kent relaxes his posture and lets himself run a hand through his hair. “I—just raised a lot of unexpected hell for my publicist.” He manages a smirk. “No chance you’d let me call him, right?”

Karen shakes her head, lips pursed.

“Okay, yeah, worth a shot.”  Kent presses his lips together for a second. “But, uh, yeah—this wasn’t—I didn’t come here trying to come out or anything, but—” He smiles ruefully, hopes maybe it comes off as sappy and lovesick or something. “I wasn’t counting on Bitty, either.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Outing without consent:** Kent will be caught on camera in an intimate situation with Bitty, and will unsuccessfully try to convince the crew to delete the footage. He will experience anxiety related to being outed but ultimately form a plan to handle the situation, which will remain relevant to the rest of the fic. The aftermath of this outing will be prevalent in the plot, but Kent's negative feelings will diminish over time.


	3. Episode Three

“Okay, can we talk about the elephant in the room or what?” Aaron asks, gesturing vaguely in Kent’s general direction.

“Hm?” Kent asks. He looks over at Bittle, who’s tucked under his arm on the couch and rolling his eyes at Kent’s innocence-routine, then around the room where pretty much everyone is sitting and staring at him. “Oh, uh—news travels fast, huh?”

It’s been a day and a half since the kiss and veto ceremony; they’ve just voted Roman off the show—which was like, extra vindicating, considering—and finished touring Sarah’s HoH suite. Kent is kinda surprised it took someone this long to bring it up. It’s not like they’ve been  _ that  _ subtle.

“This is—I mean this is fuckin’  _ huge,  _ man, and you’re just like—chilling on the couch with your arm around another dude,” Aaron says. “How’re you so calm about this?”

Kent’s not sure if the sound trying to work its way out of his mouth is a laugh or the start of a fit of hyperventilation. He swallows it down, smirks, and asks, “You want a speech or something?”

Jessica clears her throat and says, “I think we’re just—confused.”

“I mean, it’s awesome, bro,” Jamal clarifies. “Like, great for both of you. Just—how—why now?”

_ Fuck if I know,  _ Kent thinks. He shifts in his seat, shoots a look to Bittle who shrugs subtly as if to say  _ ‘this one’s on you,’  _ and sighs.

“I guess—” he starts, hesitates. “I guess, you know—Bitty kissed me and—I couldn’t bring myself to pretend I didn’t wanna kiss him back.”

Bittle hums warmly and leans farther into Kent’s side, head resting on Kent’s shoulder. “I’m sorry I put that on you,” he says, and Kent isn’t sure if there’s a real apology underneath, but for his sanity he’s gonna pretend there is. “I mean—I’m glad you—but I shouldn’t have, um—”

He cuts off, biting at his lip, and Kent nuzzles against his temple. “It’s okay,” he murmurs, and he means that too.

“Aww, you guys are so cute!” Sarah coos, coming down the stairs with Erika and Annie behind her.

Kent looks over at her and smiles at them—focuses on Sarah and Erika’s pleasant faces and forces himself to ignore the familiar look of intense concern on Annie’s.

It’s an expression she’s been wearing pretty consistently since yesterday. They haven’t spoken.

“Y’all are too sweet,” Bittle deflects, waving his hand with a pleasant dismissiveness. He pulls away from under Kent’s arm. “Now, who wants what pie? I’ve gotta get my baking in before the luxury competition.”

“Ooh, can you make blueberry, babe?” Kent asks, smirking at the way Bittle’s eye twitches. “It’s my fave.”

“Of course, sweetheart!” Bittle enthuses, grinning broadly. He leans in for a brief kiss, nipping his teeth into Kent’s bottom lip so hard it stings when he pulls away.

It’s cute how he still thinks that’s a deterrent.

 

~*~

 

Kent manages to keep it together until that night—and of course it’s fucking Annie’s fault when it all goes to hell. He runs into her as she’s leaving the bathroom, looking soft and ready for sleep in a pair of cat pajama pants and an old t-shirt that nearly matches the color of her hair. Kent remembers what the threadbare cotton would feel like between his fingers.

“Hey,” she says quietly, the voice she used to reserve for playoffs losses and broken wrists. “Are you doing okay?”

Kent twirls his toothbrush in his hand, keeps his eyes on the sink behind her. “I’m great. Not that you—”

“I just meant—”

“Seriously, stay the fuck out of—”

_ “Kenny!”  _ Annie hisses, exasperated, and it’s more muscle memory than anything that slams his mouth shut. “Stay out of  _ what?  _ The fact that you just outed yourself on national television? Are you fucking  _ kidding _ me?”

Kent grits his teeth. “I can’t—”

“You can make out with some guy on a hammock, but you can’t talk to  _ me?”  _ Annie’s voice is raising now, slicing sharp over her teeth. “That’s rich, Kent. Really predictable, I guess—”

“It’s not—” Kent cuts off, scrubs a hand over his face. He can feel his heart pounding and the shuddering of his blood in his veins from the force of it. “It’s not  _ like  _ that, please, just—just give me a fucking—a second, okay?”

Annie purses her lips and nods, looking up at him with dark eyes.

Kent glances behind him and makes sure the hallway is clear before he steers her back inside the bathroom and locks the door behind them. He braces a hand on the sink to stay upright—digs his hand into the edge of the granite so hard he can feel the dent forming in his skin—and then gives up on that and slumps to the ground instead.

“Kent—”

“If I tell you something—” Kent looks up at her, the pinched concern on her face, the way her hand is half-outstretched as she crouches, like she can’t remember how to touch him the way she wants to. “If I tell you, you can’t—you’ve gotta be ready to lie for me.”

Annie’s lips twitch. “I’m getting déjà vu. Are you getting déjà vu?”

“Fuck off,” Kent grumbles, and presses the palms of his hands into his eyes.

“Seriously, though,” Annie says. She gently pulls Kent’s hands away from his face, cradles them in her own. “Just because I haven’t forgiven you—don’t  _ roll your eyes _ —God, you’re such a prick.”

Kent laughs weakly and leans his head back against the door. Her palms are cool against his knuckles.

Annie goes quiet again, insistent. “I’d never mess with something like this, okay? I have you.”

“I—okay.” Kent sighs and slouches down farther. “It’s not—this thing with Bittle, it’s not real, okay? He fucking hates my guts or whatever and he’s not—the feeling’s like, vaguely mutual.”

“Okay,” Annie says slowly. “So what happened?”

“We—Frank caught us, uh—” Kent laughs drily, “—Christ, like five minutes from the world’s most spiteful pair of handjobs. And I was freaking out, and Bittle—he said we should like, pretend to date instead. Said it’d be better than—than what they were gonna air.”

Annie drops one of Kent’s hands so she can reach out and squeeze his knee. “Oh, Kent. That’s—shit—so the backyard—?”

“It’s all fake,” Kent confirms. “And I’m—I guess it’s better than, you know, what was gonna happen, but I can’t—it’s not like anyone  _ planned  _ this and I’m—I don’t know—”

“Wait, did you and Zimmermann—he knew you might be— _ seeing _ other—”

_ “Christ,  _ Annie—are you seriously fucking asking me if I’m cheating on Jack?” Kent snaps, lips curling into a snarl.

Annie throws her hands up into the air with narrowed eyes, breaking every point of contact they have. She says nothing.

Her silence deflates him and Kent drops his face into his hands, muffles the confession into his own skin. “We’re not even together, okay? I haven’t—I haven’t even tried. Gloat all you fucking want about it.”

Annie says, “It’d be like kicking a puppy, babe,” and puts a hand back on his knee. “We’ll revisit in a couple months or so.”

Kent snorts. “Great, thanks.”

“I really am sorry,” she adds softly. “What can I do?”

“I—I don’t—know how I’m gonna to do this,” Kent whispers.

“Lie about a relationship? You do it all the time.”

Kent shakes his head. “But the other way around. I can’t—how do you act like—like there’s this thing when there isn’t?”

“I guess you just—let people see what they want to,” Annie offers with a shrug. “Same as always.”

Kent thinks about basketball games with Jeff—thinks about arms around shoulders and quiet nights on the road and children who called him Uncle Kenny. He thinks, inevitably, about guilt and the way things change and how important didn’t mean forever.

“Yeah,” he says, “same as always.”

 

~*~

 

Jamal grunts as he sets down his barbells, then uses his t-shirt to wipe the sweat off his forehead. “So Bitty, you’re voting with us, right?”

Bittle looks over from his jog on the treadmill, all floppy hair and red, shiny cheeks from exertion and somehow not even looking gross because of it.

At least Kent’s allowed to stare now.

“I feel like I’m joinin’ the mob,” he chirps, breaths coming a little short.

Kent doesn’t think about other ways he could make Bittle pant like that.

“You are, bro,” Jamal replies easily, and bullies Kent off the leg press by sliding weights onto the machine while he ogles Bittle between sets. Uncool. “It’s not like it even matters this week, anyway.”

Kent rolls off the bench and lays down on the floor, which nets him an, “Oh my God, that’s disgusting!” from Bittle that he ignores, except for blowing him a cheeky kiss.

“Yeah,” he agrees to Jamal, “it’s just about, like, a united front.”

Cody and Greg are up for elimination, and no one’s really that close to either of them so it’s not exactly a controversial week—too early in the season to be making big plays.

“Get  _ off  _ the  _ floor!”  _ Bittle insists, and Kent’s staring at the ceiling, but he hears the sound of the treadmill shutting off.

“Babe,” Kent says, splaying out like a starfish, “I live here now.”

Bittle huffs and practically stomps over, which is ridiculous and cute as shit, before grabbing at Kent’s arm to try and yank him to his feet. Kent yanks back, because he’s an asshole, and catches Bittle off balance enough that he topples to the ground with a yelp, landing half on top of Kent.

When Kent turns to look at him, Bittle looks more annoyed than anything—but to his credit he pieces his face into something pleasant pretty quickly, so Kent smirks and says, “Hey, handsome. Fancy meeting you here.”

Bittle’s lips twitch. “The floor?” he asks drily, pushing up onto his hands to hover higher above Kent.

“Yeah, I hear it’s pretty gross down here. You should get up.”

“Oh—my God.” Bittle starts to put a hand to his face, then apparently remembers where his hand’s just been and thinks better of it. Instead, he stands up and offers the hand to Kent to help him to his feet. “You’re—ridiculous. You’re a ridiculous man. I don’t know why I put up with you.”

Kent takes Bittle’s hand and pulls himself up, using the momentum to crowd into Bittle’s space. “’Cause I’m cute?”

Bittle’s face twitches like he wants to roll his eyes. Softly, he says, “You are pretty cute. Might have something to do with it.”

Kent hums triumphantly and tugs Bittle into a kiss. It’s gentle, easy in a way that would almost make Kent’s toes curl, if it were real. Bittle leans in a little, just enough.

The moment’s interrupted by Jamal clinking weights back into place on the leg press machine and chirping warmly, “You guys are a fucking pair, huh?”

Kent laughs, eyes flicking back to Bittle with a conspiratorial look. “Sure are.”

“It’s, uh—I meant to tell you it sooner?” Jamal says, suddenly more serious. He wipes at his forehead again and shifts weight between his feet as he stands. “But I, you know—I wanted to make sure you knew how much this means, like—to everyone, you know? I’ve got, uh—family that it means a lot for, having guys like you in sports.”

Bittle deflects, “Oh, that’s—I mean, it’s all Kent, really. I’m not exactly in hockey anymore.”

“You were openly gay in the NCAA,” Kent counters, turning to Bittle insistently. “That’s still a huge fucking deal. And now you’re, you know—putting up with my mess and shit.”

Bittle’s cheeks go pink, but his laugh is a little strained. “I wouldn’t call it that, but alright, sweetheart.”

Kent squeezes Bittle’s shoulder and then holds out a hand to offer Jamal a bro-hug, which he accepts readily.

“Thanks though, man,” Kent tells him. “Knowing you’ve got our backs—that’s fucking awesome.”

Jamal claps Kent on the shoulder an extra time before pulling away. “Anytime, bro.”

Bittle leans into Kent’s side to give him a quick kiss on the cheek, a hand resting lightly on Kent’s hip as he says, “I’m gonna go hop in the shower before the veto competition. Maybe get a batch of bread goin’.”

“Sure thing, babe.” Kent returns Bittle’s kiss and lingers for a second with his nose in his hair.

Jamal furrows his eyebrows. “Uh, how’re you gonna cook? We lost the challenge.”

Bittle’s smile is sharp, genuine. “All they said was we can only eat PB&J. Nothing says where I gotta get my ingredients from.”

Jamal pushes a dreadlock away from his face and points out, “I’m not sure it works that way, bro.”

“We’ll see,” Bittle says pleasantly, in a tone that suggests he’s pretty fucking sure he’ll get his way.

It only turns Kent on a little.

Bittle slips away and heads towards the door. Kent calls, “Follow your dreams, babe!” and just barely catches Bittle’s quiet snort as he waves over his shoulder.

 

~*~

 

Bittle gets to make his bread—after a seven minute argument with a producer yelling at him over the loudspeaker that’s almost definitely getting gif’ed online. He’s unbearably smug about it too, which might contribute to why Kent’s currently shoved up against the bathroom sink—with the door locked this time, thanks—with Bittle’s hands in his hair, forcing his mouth down to Bittle’s throat like Kent’s dick is gonna be some kind of victory lap.

Not that Kent’s complaining. He sucks at Bittle’s pulse point, scraping lightly with his teeth and drawing out a gasp. Bittle pushes Kent back harder into the sink, a thigh shoved between his legs and his dick pressed up against Kent’s hip, hard and straining in those fucking shorts of his.

“What’s up with you and Annie?” he asks, which—

“Dude, seriously?” Kent pulls off Bittle’s neck and gestures between them pointedly. “Seriously?”

Bittle rolls his eyes and takes his hands out of Kent’s hair to cross his arms, but he doesn’t back out of Kent’s space. “There’s clearly something there besides ‘lived in the same city,’ and I think things are gonna be hard enough here without you hiding cards, don’t you?”

Kent narrows his eyes and squares his shoulders a few seconds before deflating. “This is gonna sound dumb as fuck considering, but—you can’t tell anyone.”

“I’ll add it to the list,” Bittle comments drily, and takes a step back.

Kent pushes off the sink and sits on the ground, leaning his head back against the cabinets. “She’s my ex. We dated for like, three years? Broke it off when I left for Providence.”

“Okay, that explains—” Bittle pauses, and his face shifts into something vaguely pissed off-looking. “Wait, wasn’t she already with Zefron back then?”

Kent snorts. “Did you seriously just call him ‘Zefron?’”

“Don’t deflect,” Bittle snaps, which is fucking rich coming from him, but Kent shoves away that particular comment for now.

“Yeah, she was with Zac,” Kent says. “And I was fucking my d-man the whole time too. We’re polyamorous, but thanks for assuming you know shit about my life— _ again.” _

Bittle’s face does something complicated next, like he’s looking for something else to be pissed about, before he settles on looking vaguely tired and asking, “Wait, it wasn’t Jeff Troy?”

Kent closes his eyes and tilts his head upwards, just a little. “Yeah, it’s Jeff. Christ, I can’t imagine what he’s dealing with from the press right now.”

There were hundreds of ‘bromance’ articles written about them over the years, maybe even more than existed about him and Jack—shit that no one blinked at before, but now—

“He’s married, right? People won’t assume—”

“They won’t say it to his face, no,” Kent agrees. “But, shit—this is so fucked for so many people, you know? Everyone I’ve ever cellyed with, fucking cuddled on camera—”

“Jack Zimmermann—”

Kent sidesteps, “And I’m trapped in this fucking box while they fucking run themselves out of stories.”

Bittle bites at his lower lip with what looks like genuine concern. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s, you know—” Kent waves a hand dismissively. “It’s whatever. You’re, you know—I appreciate what you’re doing.”

Bittle nods, staying quiet for a moment before asking, “So are you, um—are you seeing anyone right now?”

“Uh, no,” Kent answers. “I’m—things broke off with everyone when I moved, and—yeah. I’m single.” Bittle doesn’t say anything right away, so Kent ventures, “Are you?”

Bittle’s lips twitch. “Don’t worry, Parson—I’m not two-timing anyone back home. I’ve—just had the one boyfriend, actually, back in college.”

Which, like, not that Kent actually asked him to share that part, but sure. He’ll bite if Bittle wants to talk. “Oh yeah?”

“Rugby team,” Bittle says, pauses to look Kent up and down, then drawls, “Guess I have a type,” which makes Kent laugh. “He, uh—moved back to the UK after we graduated, though, and I already had the show in the works, so—there went that.”

“That sucks, dude,” Kent says, pushing off the ground onto his feet again. “I, uh—I’m sorry?”

“Don’t be,” Bittle answers breezily—too casually, in Kent’s opinion, but what does he know. “You’ve gotta put your career first sometimes, you know? Figure you understand that better than most, anyway.”

There’s a record book filled with Kent’s name on the west coast and the reason he swapped timezones sure as fuck wasn’t to fill a new one. He crowds Bittle up against the door and says, “Yeah, definitely. Can we get back to the part where you suck my dick, now?”

Bittle raises his eyebrows and slips a hand up under Kent’s shirt, fingers trailing across his abs until he finds a nipple and twists  _ hard.  _ “Is that where that was going?”

“Maybe,” Kent pants, pressing his forehead against the door and sucking a breath in through his teeth. “Open to suggestions.”

Bittle’s smirk is fucking terrifying.


	4. Episode Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy day-after-Kent-Parson's-birthday! Enjoy several thousand words of him pining his little bi heart out <3
> 
> Warning that the previously discussed **food issues** come back up in this chapter.

The thing is—Kent probably gets a little attached to touching Bittle. Not just in the sex way—not that he’s complaining about the number of times they’ve been playing more than a little rough in the bathroom—but, like—

He likes the way Bittle jumps a little when Kent comes up behind him in the kitchen and wraps his arms around his waist, the little sigh he does when he settles into the kiss Kent presses to his cheek.

He likes how Bittle tucks perfectly under his arm on the couch but how solid his presence is, lean muscle and warm skin and heavy weight against Kent’s side.

He definitely likes how, in the wake of Cody’s elimination and at least five margaritas, Bittle pours himself half into the Jacuzzi, half into Kent’s lap, and winds his arms around Kent’s neck. Even if it’s flustering as hell.

“Sorry,” Bittle says, probably louder than he meant to. His body is cool compared to the water and it feels fucking heavenly against Kent’s skin. “I’m a handsy drunk.”

Kent clears his throat, mostly for his own benefit, and slips his arm around Bittle’s waist. “S’okay, I’m always handsy.” His eyes flick over to Sarah, and he winks at her in an attempt to seem a little less like there’s a fifty percent chance he’s about to pop a boner and another fifty percent chance he’s just gonna die on the spot. She puts a hand up to her mouth and giggles, so it probably works.

Bittle hums appreciatively and nuzzles against Kent’s jaw.

Aaron gets up and leaves the hot tub, muttering something about needing another drink.

Kent’s not drunk enough for this either. He murmurs in Bittle’s ear, “Thought your mom was watching.”

“’S why my hand’s not down your pants,” Bittle purrs back, and Kent chokes on his next breath.

Bittle’s probably just fucking with him.

Probably.

Virginia, who’s sitting next to them and almost definitely heard that, pinches Bittle’s cheek as she stands. “You’re cut off, babe. Kent, you want a shot?”

“Bring the bottle,” Kent jokes weakly, and the rest of the group laughs.

Aaron comes back outside with a double of something dark—rum, maybe—in his glass and settles back into the water next to Jessica. “So, serious question,” he says, and Kent scrubs a hand over his face to brace for impact. “You’re guys are like—the same size, right? So who’s the little spoon?”

Bittle bursts into giggles immediately, face pressed into Kent’s neck while he shakes with laughter.

“Okay, first of all,” Kent says, while he works through whether he’s actually offended or not, “I could bench  _ two  _ of him.”

“And—and he’s got, like, three inches on me,” Bittle points out, still laughing. He looks at Aaron and grins. “Three inches can be  _ real  _ important.”

Kent actually loses it after that, breaking into a fit of laughter and pressing his face into Bittle’s damp hair. He smells like the mousse he uses every morning—something bright and sharp and musky all at once.

“What’d I miss?” Virginia asks. Kent doesn’t look up, but he hears her settling back into the hot tub and putting glasses down on the side.

“Aaron broke the gays,” Jessica deadpans.

Kent holds up a hand in protest, wheezing, “I’m bi.”

“And Kent’s the big spoon because he can bench press Bitty,” Jess adds.

“Wait, no,” Kent says, slightly more seriously than before. “Definitely not.”

Jessica quirks an eyebrow, but Kent ignores her in favor of smirking at Aaron.

“I switch-pitch,” he says, a challenge creeping into his voice, and ignores the way Bittle hisses  _ ‘Kent,’  _ under his breath. “That’s what you’re really asking, right?”

No one’s laughing anymore. Virginia pours a shot of something clear and hands it to Kent, who downs it and only winces a little when the tequila hits his throat.

Sarah looks between the others and asks, eyebrows furrowed, “Switch-pitch?”

Jessica snickers, but doesn’t answer her, and no one else seems like they want to either. Kent’s about to let her off the hook—mostly to make Aaron squirm a little more—when Bittle announces, “I’m gettin’ cold. Come inside with me, sweetheart?” in a pretty transparent attempt at situation defusal.

Kent bites though and lets Bittle tug him out of the water and back into the house, dripping wet and brooding just a fucking little. He runs a hand through his hair and starts, “If you’re gonna fucking lecture—”

“Who even says switch-pitch anymore?”

Kent blinks at Bittle—his big, fake-innocent eyes and his lips barely-not twitching into a smile—and laughs.

Bittle cracks and laughs too, falling forward into Kent’s chest and pressing up against him while his body shakes with it, and now he’s warm when the air-conditioned kitchen is cold and his giggles are hot breath brushing along Kent’s collarbone and—

Kent thinks,  _ Oh, fuck. _

 

~*~

 

There’s a seventy percent chance that,  _ Oh, fuck,  _ will be the last thought Kent ever has.

He’s still thinking it when they make sandwiches (again) for dinner with home-made pluot jam—Kent only gets chirped a little for admitting he had no idea that was a thing—and a fresh loaf of bread, and Bittle swipes a smudge of peanut butter off the corner of Kent’s mouth with this stupid, fond little tutting noise that makes Kent’s heart flutter.

He’s still thinking it the next day when Bittle honest-to-God wakes him up with a kiss on the cheek and tells him to come down to breakfast—which is just more PB&J disguised as toast, but it’s a pretty fucking cute effort and Bittle’s ears turn a little pink when Kent tells him so.

And, yeah, he’s definitely still thinking it when, halfway through brushing his teeth, he asks, “Should we talk about like, boundaries?”

Bittle leans into Kent’s space to spit a mouthful of toothpaste into the sink and rinse out his mouth. “Um, what?”

“Uh, I just mean, like—with the stuff last night—”

Bittle straightens, guarded concern on his face. “Did that bother you? I didn’t—”

“Uh, no—” Not in the way Bittle means, anyway. “I just meant like, you were pretty drunk and—”

Bittle’s cheeks turn red, from embarrassment or anger, Kent can’t tell. “I wasn’t that drunk—”

“And I was kinda worried, like—you’d regret, uh—” Kent scrubs a hand over his face and nearly pokes himself in the eye with his toothbrush. “Fuck. I mean, I just didn’t know where the line was? Like, you said your mom watches, so—”

“She’s probably not, anymore,” Bittle says. He turns the faucet back on so he can wet his hair, running his fingers through it before he fishes his mousse out from the cluttered medicine cabinet. “Or if she is, well—she’ll ignore whatever she wants, anyway.”

Kent says, “Uh.”

Bittle’s hands stutter in his hair. His eyes are fixed on his reflection. “There’s a reason I don’t film my show in Georgia.”

“I thought you—uh, fuck, sorry.” Kent’s stomach feels, like, three sentences away from revisiting his peanut butter toast. “You said—the other week—you said your family was good, though. Like, you and your mom are close?”

Bittle snorts, overly-casual. “Yeah, just not bring-a-boy-home-for-Thanksgiving close.”

“Fuck,” Kent swears under his breath. “I’m an asshole.”

Bittle fluffs his hair one last time and agrees, “Yeah. You’re also not the only one sending a message with this—thing.”

Kent runs a hand through his hair, fidgeting. “Okay—okay, yeah. So—what’s the line, then?”

“No fucking on camera,” Bittle says, and Kent rolls his eyes, because  _ duh.  _ “Fooling around, maybe—under the covers and stuff?”

Kent thinks about it for a second, then agrees, “Uh, yeah. Like, gay sex but not Gay Sex.” He does jazz hands for emphasis and definitely doesn’t preen at all when Bittle huffs out a laugh.

“Yeah, and—basically any cuddling is fine. Maybe—” Bittle’s lips twitch.  _ “Maybe _ a little less sloppy than last night.”

Kent bites back the smug smile working its way onto his face. Mostly. “So, stick to the cute shit.”

“’Cute shit,’” Bittle echoes, mocking him a little, his accent thickening. “Everythin’ I do is cute, sweetheart.”

Kent shoves his neglected toothbrush back in his mouth before he does something stupid, like agree.

 

~*~

 

It’s raining when Jamal hosts the nomination ceremony later that day—the big umbrellas on the porch closed and quaking in the wind anyway and water whipping out of the pool across the deck—and Bittle’s hand is on Kent’s thigh. Not that high up or anything, because it’s two in the fucking afternoon even if every time Kent looks outside, it’s so dark it might as well be after sunset.

But it’s on Kent’s thigh and his thumb keeps tracing over the side-seam of Kent’s jeans, and they always air this part on TV and Kent thinks,  _ Christ. _

Jamal nominates Greg and Vienna, just like everyone agreed yesterday. He looks at Virginia and Erika across the table while he does it; they’re running out of weeks and pretty soon alliances are gonna actually clash instead of picking people off in the middle.

Kent’s looking forward to it, a little.

Everyone scatters after the nominations, spreading out through the house to get a little space after the tenser atmosphere. Options are a little limited with the yard off-limits, but people cluster well enough and Kent ends up curled on the couch with Bittle cuddled against him, a blanket pulled up to their shoulders.

Kent takes a breath, eyes fluttering closed, and shifts so Bittle’s head is resting on his shoulder instead of his chest.

Bittle makes a vague grumbly noise that does literally nothing to help Kent get his heart rate under control, and burrows farther under the blanket again.

Kent gives up and brings a hand up to Bittle’s hair, scratching his fingers gently through the shaved side of it.

“Wish there was somethin’ to do,” Bittle mumbles into Kent’s shirt.

Kent smirks. “Yeah? You look pretty good right there, babe.”

“I mean, like, a movie or somethin’. ‘S weird, nothing goin’ on.”

“Mm, yeah,” Kent agrees. He has a lightning-flash thought of doing this back home—snuggling up in his favorite chair while a Nor’easter batters Providence, putting a dent in a giant bowl of popcorn, Kit curled up on the armrest next to them—that he smothers as quickly as he can.

That would be real like this isn’t.

Kent swallows thickly. “I wish, uh—I wish we could’ve met differently?”

Bittle’s eyes are owlish when he lifts his head to blink up at Kent. “Yeah?”

“I mean, I’d get to take you on dates,” Kent says. He traces little shapes against Bittle’s scalp, watches the way the short hairs shimmer bright and golden when they catch in the light. “Out to dinner, watch our favorite movies.”

Bittle hums, nudges his nose against Kent’s collarbone. “What’s your favorite movie?”

_ “Crazy, Stupid, Love,”  _ Kent answers automatically, and Bittle giggles.

“Really?”

“It’s a classic!” Kent insists defensively, but Bittle is smiling and so is he. “There’s all these different love stories and the plot twist is  _ so good  _ and—and I dunno, I just love like, the soft heartache vibe.”

Bittle tilts his head to the side and something changes in his face that Kent can’t place—the exact curve of his mouth, the shade of brown his eyes are. “You’ll have to watch it with me,” he says softly, a hand tracing down Kent’s side to rest on his hip, “when we get out of here.”

Kent wants to kiss him. He forgets that he can.

“Uh, yeah,” he says. “Definitely.”

Bittle has more freckles than he did yesterday—or maybe it’s a trick of the light. Kent wants to taste the ones on his shoulder, scrape at them with the edge of his teeth.

Kent asks, “What’s your favorite?”

Bittle hums again, arches his back in a thoughtful stretch.  _ “Sleepless in Seattle.” _

“Dude—babe—what the hell?” Kent laughs and tickles at Bittle’s sides accusingly, which makes him yelp. “Why’d you fuckin’ laugh at  _ me _ then?”

Bittle wriggles out of Kent’s grasp and tumbles to the ground with a  _ thump.  _ He seems dazed for a second in a way that almost has Kent worried—but then he blinks out of it, grabs the blanket, and curls back up with Kent on the couch. “’Cause  _ Sleepless in Seattle  _ is an actual classic, hun.”

“New-age classics still count,” Kent protests, tugging Bittle closer against his chest. “And also fuck you.”

“Maybe later,” Bittle answers breezily, and Kent makes a noise that he tries to pass off as a snort but is definitely just a choking sound.

Bittle tilts his head up, kisses him sweetly, and asks, “Second favorite movie?”

 

~*~

 

“Never tickle me again,” Bittle says, and closes the bathroom door in Kent’s face.

 

~*~

 

Their team loses the luxury competition again, and there’s only so many times Bittle can make a new jam flavor an  _ actual  _ exciting replacement for real fucking food.

Kent’s getting pretty fucking pissy about it, if he’s being honest, and bulking on nothing but fucking sandwiches is pretty much impossible, and his nutritionist and trainer and—well, yeah, his publicist too, for a different reason—are gonna kill him.

If someone in this fucking house doesn’t snap and murder everyone else in it first.

“Jess and Sarah are fightin’ again,” Bittle drawls. His hands are in Kent’s hair and Kent’s head is on Bittle’s thigh.

Kent feels like a feral cat—all bristle and wounded pride and kind of like he wants to sink his teeth into the meat of Bittle’s palm because it feels too good to be doted on like this. He hums noncommittally and asks, “Yeah?”

“Heard ‘em goin’ at it in the kitchen about something.” Bittle’s finger twirls around a cowlick, tugging lightly. “Jess called her a Barbie.”

Kent winces. “Not cool.”

“Hey, does anyone ever call you Ken Doll?” Jamal asks from his spot on the bed like ten feet away.

Kent sighs dramatically. “Uh, not since Simmons got traded in 2015, and it’s gonna die with him if I’ve got a say in it.”

“You don’t,” Jamal informs him cheerfully. Kent’s pretty sure his chirpy grin was less irritating two weeks ago, when Kent could remember what steak tasted like. “Nicknames mean we love you, Ken Doll.”

Bittle snickers. Kent nips at the bare skin of his thigh and gets a sharp pain in his hair for his trouble.

 

~*~

 

The rain doesn’t die out in time for the veto competition, but it’s gone after the ceremony the next day, leaving the backyard steaming with thick humidity in the re-emerged sun.

Bittle is busy teaching Annie how to make homemade almond butter, which is an interaction Kent isn’t feeling anywhere near stupid or self-destructive enough to get in the middle of, thanks—so he heads outside to join some of the other housemates in the pool.

“That is  _ so  _ unfair!” Erika shrieks, right as she tumbles off Greg’s shoulders and into the water.

Sarah claps her hands in triumph, pink cheeks stretched in a broad smile. She’s perched on Jamal’s shoulders, towering pretty soundly over the others. Jess is paired with Aaron, who looks like he’s more into the fact her thighs are around his neck than the actual game, and Vienna replaces Erika on top of Greg.

Kent fucking loves playing chicken.

He cannonballs into the water with a pretty awesome splash, shaking his head like a dog when he surfaces, and then swims over to Erika, who’s watching from near the edge of the pool while everyone else grapples in the middle.

She smiles at him; he winks back and puts a finger up to his lips, then dips down into the water and scoops her up onto his shoulders. They sneak up behind Aaron slowly, and Sarah seems to notice but doesn’t say anything, just giggles and goes back to fighting with Vienna.

Kent cues Erika by squeezing her ankle, and she lunges and catches Jess off-balance, but Jess shrieks and grabs at Erika as she’s falling to send her crashing into the pool too—despite Kent’s best effort to keep her steady. The girls take Aaron out too, leaving him spluttering out curses as he breaks the surface again.

Kent, still standing and completely unaffected, just laughs—because he’s kinda an asshole, yeah.

“Hey, Ken Doll,” Jamal says, all sing-song and fucking suspicious, and Kent has maybe half a second to try and duck away before Jamal is grabbing him out of the water like an eagle plucking a fucking trout or something.

Kent shouts with surprise and flails around a little bit, hears the sound of someone hitting the water—apparently Sarah getting knocked off balance from Jamal’s sudden change in direction—and gives up by the time Jamal has him properly slung over a shoulder.

“Dude, I’m precious cargo! Careful with the goods!”

“His ass is insured for thousands of dollars!” Jess chirps.

“Millions,” Kent corrects, and then swallows a mouthful of pool water when Jamal WWE-dunks him into the deep end.

He comes up coughing a little but otherwise fine and swims back over to the shallow end with everyone else. The game of chicken’s mostly dissolved, so he just leans up against the side, feeling the way the concrete scrapes against his skin. All the dicking around is making him miss Jack—wrestling in pools and locker rooms and—

Other places.

And it’s—he misses the rawness of it—misses Jack’s big dumb blunt honesty and the way his hands on Kent’s body  _ meant  _ something even if there weren’t words for it. He doesn’t know why it makes him feel guilty, why his eyes flick to the window to try and catch a glimpse of Bittle in the kitchen. Like he’s betraying something when he lets Bittle trace lies into his skin.

“You good, dude?” Aaron asks.

Kent shakes his head, splattering water droplets around him. “Oh, yeah, just zoned out for a sec.” He runs a hair through his hair, slicking it back momentarily before his cowlick springs up again.

“Hey, you know what’s a fun fucking game?” he says, pushing off the wall. “Marco Polo. No one drown in the deep end and we’ll be fine.”

Everyone agrees to play, and Kent closes his eyes and counts under his breath while they all scatter, and thinks about nooks and creases in bodies and the soft cruelty of honest hands.

 

~*~

 

Bittle’s kisses taste like toothpaste and soft bruises—puffy lips tender from the pull of teeth and too much use. He has one hand resting on Kent’s arm and the other under his head and a little smile on his face when Kent pulls away for air he doesn’t need.

“It’s late,” Kent whispers. They’re the last ones awake in the room, from the sounds of soft breathing and Annie’s snoring around them. “We should probably sleep.”

“Yeah,” Bittle agrees, but squeezes Kent’s arm when he tries to get out of bed. He moves his hand up to Kent’s face, brushes fingers across his cheek in the low light. “You could—um. You could stay, if you wanted.”

Kent’s chest goes a little tight, like his lungs are shrinking. “Uh, yeah, I—okay.”

He rolls onto his back, and Bittle shifts to wrap around him like a koala and—Christ, it’s been so fucking long since Kent’s had this and it makes it hard to swallow, like the corners of his throat are rusting shut and—

It isn’t real, even when Bittle’s fingers flex around Kent’s sleep shirt and he says, in a small voice, “After my boyfriend left? I think that was the hardest part—learning to sleep alone again.”

“Uh—yeah.” Kent brings a hand up to the back of Bittle’s head, slides his fingers into his soft, pillow-mussed hair. “I—I know what you mean. It’s—really lonely.”

“Can I tell you a secret?”

Bittle hasn’t taken his mic off yet and the box is digging into Kent’s hip.

There aren’t any secrets.

Kent kisses Bittle’s temple. “Always.”

“I used to have this stuffed rabbit as a kid?” Bittle shifts against Kent’s side. “Señor Bun. I still sleep with him sometimes, when—when I miss it. I didn’t, um—I didn’t bring him, though.”

It isn’t real, even when Kent closes his eyes and shoves the fucking bitterness out of his voice and says, “Guess I’m kinda like your bunny now.”

“I like that,” Bittle answers. His breaths are coming a little short and his voice is wetter than it should be when he whispers, “Goodnight, Bunny.”

Kent tastes metal when he swallows and he pulls Bittle tighter to him, just to feel the way the spaces between his ribs loosen a little bit when he does it, and Bittle sighs against Kent’s collarbone like he’s coming home.

And it still isn’t real, not even then.


	5. Episode Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is it Wednesday already? :P
> 
> See the endnotes for details on the warnings: **PTSD/flashbacks**

The day of the eviction vote, Kent wakes up with a mouthful of Bittle’s hair. He wrinkles his nose in a pretty solid effort at pretending like he’s annoyed by it and pulls away from Bittle’s still-sleeping form, determined to let him sleep in for once.

It’s early enough that most of their housemates are still asleep, but Annie’s snoring is noticeably absent, so Kent pads softly out of the room to look for company. He stops in the upstairs bathroom to brush his teeth and then heads down the stairs, where he waves to Vienna and Aaron in the gym before turning towards the yard.

Sure enough, Annie’s outside with a yoga mat spread out on the deck in the middle of a complicated pose Kent doesn’t remember the name of. Ignoring the twinge in his chest, Kent jogs back over to the gym to grab himself a mat and then steps outside, letting the slide of the glass door alert her to his presence. She doesn’t look up, but she doesn’t tell him to fuck off either.

Kent counts it as a win. The mat sticks a little when he tries to unroll it, and the weird sensory memory of tugging it free makes something tingle in his fingers, but he gets it spread out and settles into a few warm up stretches before he tries to jump into Annie’s routine.

“Downward Dog,” Annie says, and Kent pushes up onto his hands.

He closes his eyes and inhales slowly, imagines the breath spreading through his body from his lungs, feels the stretch of his calves when he pedals on the balls of his feet. There are things loosening in his spine and things tightening in his chest, and he feels the sun on his shoulders too much.

“Lizard,” she says next, barely a word—just the shape of a breath on her exhale.

Kent lifts his leg up, opening his hips, and then swings it forward up near his hand. He looks over at Annie, at the bow of her head. Her roots are growing in—shimmering blue-black in the morning light, stark against the soft pink of the rest of her hair. Kent wants to run his hands through it, trace a finger along the edges of it like he could make the color ripple and change under the ridges of his touch—wants to—

“Pigeon.”

Kent slides his leg to the mat, wincing when he tries to force it too perpendicular to his arms. He hasn’t kept up with this since he left Vegas, and his muscles have lost the flexibility, twinging with an old memory they can’t really hold. He grits his teeth and leans into the burn.

“You’re still too bratty for yoga,” Annie tells him. Her leg is perfectly in position and she’s folded over it like it’s the easiest thing in the fucking world.

Kent snorts. “Am not.”

“Reverse side.” Annie curls out of the pose and back into Downward Dog, which Kent copies. “And I can hear you brooding from here. If you’re gonna fuck with my meditation at least use your words.”

Kent follows Annie’s shift into Lizard with the opposite leg. “I didn’t come out here to be attacked like this.”

Except he totally did, and she knows it.

He’s kind of a dick for trying to talk to her about this, especially here—but there’s an itch under his skin, has been for days, and he knows it won’t fucking go away, so—

“Kent,” she says softly, shifting into Pigeon again, “should we go inside for this?”

“Maybe,” he agrees, but starts talking anyway. “I feel like—fuck—I feel like I’m in too deep and I—how do you know when you care too much?”

Annie’s lips quirk—something a little sharp, too bitter for the softness of her words. “Normally I’d say you can’t, but—”

“Considering the source—” Kent supplies self-deprecatingly, and follows her back into Downward Dog.

“—you probably do.” She lingers in the pose without speaking, taking loud, slow breaths, then says, “Warrior One.”

She’s changed her routine since the last time they did this together. Kent knows he can’t comment on it.

“Got any tips for making it stop?” he asks, half-joking, and nearly topples over when he tries to shift into Warrior Three.

“I’m still talking to you—what do you think?”

Kent takes the hint and shuts the fuck up.

 

~*~

 

They vote to eliminate Greg, because Kent’s pretty sure the women all have some unspoken agreement that crosses party lines or something, and then head to the HoH competition—which Bittle wins.

Kent’s pretty sure it’s half an accident, too—Bittle doesn’t like looking like he has too much power—but whatever, he’s not gonna complain about it. Mostly because he’s also pretty sure they’ll get to make out in that giant ass bed a lot.

When they all head up to see it, the HoH room is filled with Southern comfort snack foods and, weirdly enough, a rolling pin that Bittle clutches to his chest with more affection than he’s ever shown Kent, on-camera or not.

Kent’s twenty-nine. He’s not jealous of a baking instrument.

There’s a giant envelope stuffed with letters from Bittle’s college friends that he tears open immediately; everyone sprawls on the giant bed or the floor and listens to the ridiculous stories he reads out loud, shoulders shaking with laughter as he rambles off on tangents, explaining who people are and what they’re up to now in a storytelling fashion that’s confusing as hell and more endearing than that.

Kent doesn’t say anything about the envelope Bittle slides under the alarm clock, unopened.

 

~*~

 

Kent leaves Bittle to talk with Annie, Sarah, and Erika for a while, spending his time learning how to throw a football with Jamal. Jess laughs at him a little more than he thinks is fair, considering he’s a professional fucking hockey player and she admitted last week that she can’t skate. But whatever, he’s a good sport about it. By the time he’s sort of figured out how to throw a good spiral, it’s time to power through another sandwich dinner.

“I fucking hate PB&J,” Kent whines, like a mature adult. “Who the fuck even thought of this?”

“Someone who hates you, personally,” Annie says drily, and takes another bite. She has two kinds of jam in hers because she’s a monster.

Bittle sniffs with mock offense. “Here I am,  _ laboring away _ to make y’all fancy sandwiches to make this ordeal more palatable, and this is the thanks I get. I fought a producer for y’all.”

“With his  _ fists,”  _ Jess emphasizes sarcastically. She pushes away her half-eaten sandwich, which Aaron snags from her.

“Your sacrifice will not be forgotten, brave warrior,” he tells Bittle, voice solemn, and shoves a quarter of Jess’s sandwich into his mouth in one giant bite.

Kent groans, thunking his head onto the table.

After dinner and nominations—where Bittle nominates Aaron and Vienna—Kent and Bittle hole up in the HoH suite, kissing softly in bed with the door locked behind them. Not that Kent thinks anyone is dumb enough to interrupt, but getting walked in on with his hand down his fake-boyfriend’s pants is a level of hell he’d like to avoid, thanks.

They don’t even get that far, though, before Bittle is pulling away with his eyes averted and muttering, “I was gonna, um—read the letter from my mom.”

“Oh, uh—” Kent sits up and gestures towards the door. “I can—”

“Would you stay?” Bittle blurts, and then hunches his shoulders up like he’s embarrassed or something.

It’s not like Kent could say no to that—even if he wanted to. He clears his throat and says, “Yeah, uh—yeah, definitely,” and crawls back under the covers while Bittle grabs the letter from where he stashed it earlier.

Bittle nestles against Kent’s side, cheek resting on his shoulder while he tears open the envelope.

Kent wraps an arm around him and makes a point of not peeking at the letter—just rests his chin on top of Bittle’s head and looks off to the side, kind of spacing out while Bittle mouths the words as he reads. It feels fucking wrong to be in here—like he’s forced his way into all the little spaces of Bittle’s life, built up this fucking charade and now Bittle has to share all of this with him, like—

Bittle starts trembling and Kent instinctively pulls him closer, arms curling around his warm body, and Bittle pushes his face into Kent’s chest and shakes with wordless tears—

And Kent doesn’t know if it helps, but he closes his eyes and presses kisses into Bittle’s hair and tries to breathe slowly, soothingly, hands splayed across Bittle’s back and rubbing gentle circles, and his stomach feels like it could shrivel into nothing if he swallows wrong—like he could send everything crumbling all around him with the wrong flick of his tongue.

Bittle steadies little by little, like he’s restacking a pile of bricks that tumbled over. He lifts his head and doesn’t look Kent in the eye and says, “She says—she wants to meet you. The family—at Thanksgiving.”

Kent’s lungs stop working and there’s gunpowder in his throat. Raw explosive.

“That’s, uh—”

Kent’ll be gone by Thanksgiving.

He’ll be an empty chair and an awkward roll of film from one fucked up summer and a public breakup that the dust never fully settles on, probably.

“That’s—great. I’ll, uh—” Kent swallows and feels flint sparking in between his teeth. “It’s hockey season, so—but if I can make it, I’d—that’s so nice.”

Bittle nods mechanically, a quick jerk of his head. He calmly sets the letter on the nightstand, hands barely shaking, and folds himself as small as he can get against Kent’s body.

Kent’s throat burns. It’s quiet.

 

~*~

 

The entire house wins the luxury competition, which is honestly substantial proof that there’s actually a loving God. Kent and Sarah grill steaks and Bittle bakes four pies and no one murders anyone else.

It’s a good day.

After their first real meal in weeks, everyone piles onto the sectional in the living room, laying around in overstuffed contentment. Kent is draped against an armrest at one end with Bittle’s head pillowed on his thigh, fingers tangled together near Kent’s knee in a soft point of contact that makes Kent’s chest ache.

“Vienna, truth or dare?” Sarah mumbles drowsily, running a lazy hand through Erika’s hair.

Vienna scrunches up her nose. “Seriously?”

Sarah hums, insistent and sing-song. Kent smirks.

“Ugh, I’m not moving,” Vienna says. “Truth.”

Sarah scratches at Erika’s scalp one last time and pulls her hand away to press it against her cheek in thought. “What’s, like, the worst first date you’ve been on?”

“Oh God.” Vienna makes a noise somewhere between a laugh and a groan. “He took me to a screening of his  _ own movie.  _ How egotistical! Snore.”

Kent grins cheekily and ruffles Bittle’s hair. “So I shouldn’t get Bitty tickets to my pre-season opener?”

“Hun,” Bittle drawls, “if you don’t get me box seats, I’m breakin’ up with you.”

Kent laughs through the tightness in his lungs.

Vienna stretches languidly and asks, “Bitty, truth or dare?”

“Lord, I’m not movin’ either. Truth.”

“What’s your favorite thing about Kent?”

Bittle tilts his head back to look at Kent thoughtfully, critically—like he’s digging through Kent’s chest for spare parts. His lips curl at the edges and his eyes turn soft, crinkled. “I like—I admire—how he’s unapologetically himself.”

There’s a chorus of  _ aww’s  _ and chirpy groans that do nothing to stop Kent’s face from going warm, and he leans down to give Bittle an appreciative kiss.

Bittle catches Kent’s bottom lip between his teeth and bites, like he even means it.

“Okay, Kent,” Erika challenges brightly, “spill. What’s your favorite thing about Bitty?”

Kent laughs again, a little awkwardly, buying time. He looks down at Bittle’s freckle-kissed face, his fucking doe eyes. Runs his tongue over the tender spot on his lip. Says, “How much he cares about other people.”

Bittle smiles amongst the second round of  _ oohing  _ and  _ awing  _ and pushes up onto his forearms, twisting around for a proper kiss. It’s sweet and soft and gentle. There’s no teeth.

 

~*~

 

“I lied earlier,” Kent pants, ducks his head further into the crook of his arm where it’s braced on the sink.

Bittle hums and twists his fingers. He misses Kent’s prostate—probably on purpose, because he’s being a little shit.

“About what I like most,” Kent clarifies. He reaches a hand down to his dick and whines when Bittle smacks it away—whimpers when Bittle starts stroking him himself. “I like how you take whatever you want and everyone fucking thanks you for it.”

Bittle sinks his teeth into the meat of Kent’s shoulder.

 

~*~

 

_ “Sweet Home Alabama,”  _ Bittle says, as he finishes drying his hands on a towel.

Kent looks up from the come he’s wiping off the tile.

Bittle fluffs at his hair so he looks a little less like he just fucked Kent in the downstairs bathroom. It doesn’t do anything for the flush on his cheeks, or the way his voice shakes a little when he admits, “That’s my favorite movie.”

 

~*~

 

It rains again—the soft nostalgic kind that makes it sound like there are monsters dancing on the roof. Kent used to throw open the balcony doors in his mother’s apartment and dash outside as fast as he could with his face tilted to the sky—like if he was quick enough he could catch them. Ma used to ruffle his wet hair and tell him,  _ ‘You’ll have to be faster than that, baby,’  _ and never once complained about all the water that seeped into the carpet.

Bittle’s smile goes soft and his eyes warm, when Kent tells him that story. He runs his fingers through Kent’s hair and whispers, “Race you,” and takes off like a shot.

Kent scrambles after him and doesn’t catch him until he’s already in the yard, staring up at the water rolling off the empty roof, and Kent takes his face in his hands and kisses and kisses him until he’s drinking the rain out of Bittle’s mouth.

Jess shouts at them to get the fuck back inside. They only listen because thunder rumbles, like it’s on cue, and even then Bittle has to laugh and pull Kent by the hand to make him follow.

“Idiots,” Jess mutters, but Kent just winks at her as they head into the bathroom to dry off.

Bittle snags a towel from the linen closet and hops up onto the counter while he dries his hair, ruffling it into a mess he’ll definitely need to restyle. He’s in a tank top and his muscles glisten with rainwater and his skin has new freckles to taste, and—

Kent steps between Bittle’s knees and cups his chin in his hand and traces a thumb over his bottom lip so, so fucking gently and—

“What’re you doing?” Bittle asks softly. Kent can feel his breath over the ridges of his fingerprint.

Kent’s thumbnail catches on the seam of Bittle’s lip as he pulls it back. “I don’t know,” he says, and takes a step away.

 

~*~

 

Sarah wins the veto competition and chooses not to use it, and that afternoon they all head out to the yard to relax, take a break from the nervous energy and the politics. The sun is hot and almost everyone is in the pool, play-fighting and grappling over a football in a weird game of sort-of keep-away.

Kent tries to dunk Jamal under the water, mostly just to be a dick but a little to try and grab the ball from him, and swallows a mouthful of water when Jamal swats him off like a flea. He shakes his head, splattering droplets on the people sunbathing, and grins invitingly at Bittle.

“Gonna get in the water, babe?” he asks—hopes Bittle will say yes—wants to put hands on his skin, feel him wriggle and laugh against Kent’s chest. He’s feeling flirty and keyed up and like he can’t get enough  _ touching,  _ like there’s an itch in his bones for it.

Bittle readjusts his sunglasses on his face with a shrug. “Maybe later, hun.”

Kent swallows his disappointment and distracts himself by relentlessly chirping Jess when she accidentally lobs the football over Sarah’s head, clear out of the pool. He’s near the edge already, so he hauls himself onto the deck and goes after the ball, which’s rolled under the Adirondack chairs on the porch, closer to the house. He fishes the ball out and throws it back to Jamal, who catches it easily.

“Hey, Bitty, can I borrow your sunglasses?” Sarah asks, holding a hand over her eyes. It’s bright as hell out and she’s facing the sun head on, squinting unhappily.

Bittle hums amicably and gets up to hand them over, and Kent thinks—

Well, he’s actually not really thinking about anything besides touching Bittle when he jogs over and tackles him into the deep end of the pool.

Bittle yelps and his elbow catches Kent in the jaw when they hit the water, but Kent comes up spluttering with laughter, massaging the spot he’s pretty sure is gonna bruise, and that’s probably why it takes him a second to realize—

Bittle’s still underwater and someone says,  _ “Kent!”  _ and—

Kent dives down and hauls Bittle to the surface, feet bracing against the bottom of the pool to push them up faster and Bittle’s gasping for air, sure, but it sounds hollow, like he can’t actually make his lungs work, and Kent feels his own breathing go shallow.

“Babe—Bitty, are you okay?” he asks, still holding Bittle up because he’s not treading water on his own and Bittle just turns to him blankly.

It takes five seconds for a smile to contort onto his face. He looks like a wooden doll. “Oh, um…I just got—the wind knocked outta me…I think. I’ll just, you know—”

He tugs out of Kent’s grip and makes it over to the side of the pool, clambers over the edge. Kent says, “Bitty—”

“I’ll just, um—I guess I’m swimming now.” Bittle pulls at his soaked tank top and laughs faintly. “I’ll…go get my swim trunks.”

Bittle vanishes into the house and Kent gapes after him, ashamed and wordless, until Annie hisses,  _ “Go, _ asshole,” and he scrambles after Bittle in a desperate rush.

He follows the trail of dripping wet footprints— _ fuck,  _ Bittle always fucking uses a towel and he didn’t even fucking grab one—and catches up to Bittle in the upstairs hallway.

“Bitty, I’m—”

Bittle spins sharply on his heels and spits, voice quaking with rage or fear or both, “Don’t  _ ever  _ touch me like that again.”

There are tears in Bittle’s eyes and Kent put them there and Kent wants to wipe them away. “I’m sorry—I’m so sorry, fuck, I don’t—I didn’t—I didn’t know—”

Bittle turns away again, and Kent almost reaches for him but thinks better of it. Instead he just begs, “Bitty—Bitty, please talk to me,” with a tightness in throat that makes it hard to force out any sounds at all.

“I—” Bittle’s shoulders are hunched like he wants to crack the bones around his spine—twist and snap his skeleton into a box. He doesn’t speak and doesn’t move.

Kent walks around slowly, breath held like maybe he could blow Bittle away, until they’re facing each other again. He reaches out with shaking hands and Bittle looks up with wide, glistening eyes and takes half a step forward—barely moves at all, like it hurts to have skin—and Kent cups Bittle’s face in his hands like it could kill them both.

Bittle’s eyes flutter shut like he’s ready to die. He takes his first full breath and says, “I was only on the team a year.”

Kent brushes a thumb across Bittle’s cheek.

“I couldn’t, um—” Bittle’s voice cracks. He opens his eyes and asks, “Did I ever tell you my daddy wanted me to play football?”

It feels like they’re in orbit. Kent can feel the pull in his gut, the singing in his blood—feels every inch of himself vibrate when Bittle shifts closer. Like their words warp gravity. He says, “You throw like it.”

“Don’t take a hit like it,” Bittle shoots back—his voice is bitter and tired, like he wants something to be funny but knows it isn’t. “I never really did. But I, um—I was okay for a while, in college, I—my friends, they helped me a little. But—”

His voice falls away again and doesn’t come back. Kent brushes the tips of his fingers through the soft hair behind Bittle’s ear and prompts gently, “Something happened?”

Bittle’s face tilts into the touch, just slightly. He whispers, “Concussion. A real bad one, I—I didn’t even walk off the ice.”

“Shit.” Kent slips his fingers away from Bittle’s temples subconsciously—rests them against his jaw instead. “And you—?”

“No, I—they cleared me to play, partway through the next year.” Bittle swallows thickly, shakes with it. “But I couldn’t—every time it feels like—”

_ Like it’s happening again.  _ Because Bittle has fucking PTSD and Kent—

Kent was too fucking stupid to see it—should have fucking  _ known better _ —and he just triggered a flashback in front of five strangers, and now he’s standing here making Bittle dig his fingers into the fucking scar tissue to show Kent how it bleeds.

“I didn’t—” he rasps, feels hot tears blurring his vision. “I didn’t—I’m so sorry, I should’ve—”

Bittle falls forward with a hiccupped sob, like he’s surprised it’s happening—like he forgot planets suck in shrapnel and asteroids and rocket ships to bury in their chests. He’s shaking and breathing hard and his cheek burns a brand where it presses into Kent’s neck, and Kent doesn’t know how to be anything but kindling.

He pulls Bittle in closer, arms wrapping around him, and pours promises into his chlorine-soaked hair. “I didn’t know. I wouldn’t ever—I didn’t want to hurt you—I’m so sorry I hurt you, Bitty. I’m so sorry, so fucking sorry.”

“I know,” Bittle whispers, like—like he has to, probably, because they’re dripping water onto the carpet of a house full of cameras and this isn’t—

This isn’t supposed to be real and Kent doesn’t know how to prove that it is—that Bittle sparks electricity under his fingertips and makes his heart shake and stutter and restart itself and that this thing he’s done—

But there might as well be wires soldered to Bittle’s tongue and cords around his wrists and there’s no way for Kent to make his words different than they’ve always sounded, and words were never enough to describe the thick things in Kent’s blood anyway.

So he cradles Bitty’s face in his hands and kisses him, like a locker room in Rimouski, like there’s no one around to see.

Bitty makes a startled noise, and for a moment Kent thinks he’s going to be pushed away—he convinces himself, in that moment, that it’ll be okay if he is—but then there’s a hand in his hair that tightens against the roots and Bitty’s mouth blooms for him, softens and slips open just enough to say,  _ okay. _

“I know,” Bitty murmurs into the kiss, “I know.”

It’s languid. Kent doesn’t know any other words for it and it’s never been like this with Bitty before—slow and passionate at the same time, deliberate and honest. He moves a hand off Bitty’s face and wraps it around his waist, tugs questioningly and gets the answer he wants—Bitty pressed up against him and a deeper kiss, more tongue and teeth and fingers just short of too-tight in his hair.

“Take me somewhere,” Bitty tells him, doesn’t ask, and Kent listens, doesn’t answer. He walks them backwards, still peppering kisses between breaths, until his back hits up against the wall and he fumbles for the HoH suite door one-handed because the other is still on Bitty’s hip.

The door swings open and it’s a coordinated tumble inside, a collapse onto the bed with Kent on his back, staring up at a pair of warm eyes and kiss-plump lips, pool water dripping from Bitty’s hair onto Kent’s face. They stay transfixed for three whole drips of water before someone—both of them, maybe—closes the distance, and it’s heady kisses again, this time with hipbones pressed into thighs.

Kent starts, “What should we—” at the same time Bitty whispers, “There’s lube in here,” and some distant part of Kent has the sense to hope the microphones didn’t pick that up.

“Are you sure?” he asks. He’s nothing but cracked welding and frayed livewires and this isn’t how anything but electrical fires start.

Bitty sinks his teeth into Kent’s bottom lip, hard enough Kent almost tastes the copper he’s made of. “Yeah.”

Kent feels as red-faced as Bitty looks, fumbling in the nightstands before coming away triumphant with a bottle of KY and a condom—because God fucking bless the producers for once. He’d maybe linger in uncertainty a little longer if Bitty wasn’t sliding under the comforter and giving him a familiar look— _ hurry up, Kent. _

Kent hurries. He crawls under the sheets and lets himself be pulled on top of Bitty, goes hungrily into the next kiss, still slow but with a little more bite, and he has the fucking nerve to think,  _ maybe it’s real. _ Their shorts slide away, lost somewhere at the foot of bed, and—fuck, Kent wants to see every inch of this thing that’s happening and he  _ can’t. _

He tucks his head down under the comforter and presses open-mouthed kisses to Bitty’s chest, eyes open and focused downward at the swell of Bitty’s dick, hard and just barely starting to leak against his stomach—then brings his head back up to reach Bitty’s neck, his mouth, his earlobe, and the rest of their bodies vanish from view under their self-censorship. The comforter is already getting uncomfortably warm against their damp skin.

Bitty takes one of Kent’s hands and slides it down, between Bitty’s thighs, urging a finger to press up against his hole.

Kent says, “We don’t have to—”

He doesn’t finish the sentence, even though he’s pretty sure both their microphones ended up on the floor. They’ll probably get yelled at for that later. Whatever.

“I know,” Bitty pants. “Come on.”

Kent pulls his hand away to coat his finger with lube—presses it in slowly, puts his lips back against Bitty’s mouth to capture the groan he knows is coming.

Bitty arches up, claws at the curve of Kent’s shoulder, bruises their mouths with stifled sounds—and it doesn’t feel like a performance when his knee presses up into Kent’s hip, when he whimpers Kent’s name and tells him to add another finger.

It doesn’t feel like anything except the heat of Bitty’s mouth and the wet slide between his thighs—nothing but the wrap of his legs around Kent’s waist and the way his nails dig into Kent’s skin when Kent pushes inside. The way his hips rock up to move with Kent’s thrusts isn’t choreographed and the way Kent whimpers, “Fuck, you feel so good,” isn’t on a script—

But it’s not barbs traded over shoulders and sharp mouths and spilling over secret tiles like there are still things to be ashamed of. It’s not sandpaper bones and pooling bruises left in quiet places the camera never reaches—there’s nothing to hurt on and nothing to break, and no goddamn reason for why Kent’s ribs still crack along all their seams.

There’s Bitty, cradled underneath Kent— _here,_ where the rest of the world gets to see—squirming a little and kissing like he needs to be treated softly and whispering, “K-Kenny—right there, Kenny—” when he comes. There’s gentle fingers tracing over the marks he leaves behind, like he knows they hurt and he’s a little sorry for it, like he’s responsible for the healing too.

Kent loses track, just for a little while, of which way is the pretending.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **PTSD/flashbacks** : Kent will accidentally trigger Bitty into having a flashback by tackling him into the pool. The flashback is bad enough that Bitty is in danger of drowning and Kent has to pull him out of the water. Afterwards, Kent and Bitty will talk about what happened and Kent will apologize.


	6. Episode Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear actual Big Brother fans: this is the part of the fic where I start taking more creative liberties with how the real show works, lol.

Kent wakes up to a hand brushing against his cheek, caressing him slowly into consciousness. He grumbles into his pillow but wiggles towards Bitty’s touch anyway, reaching with needy fingers until he hits the soft cotton of Bitty’s sleep shirt and tugs.

Bitty laughs and goes easily, curling his fingers into Kent’s hair and kissing him softly, closed-mouthed and sweet and the littlest bit drowsily, like he might drift back to sleep between one press of lips and the next. That would be fine with Kent, actually—he’d lay here with Bitty forever if he could, their legs tangled together and bodies curled into each other, just shy of too warm under the covers with the sun crawling in through the windows.

Kent opens his eyes to watch that sun catch on Bitty’s hair, to watch it light up the shades of caramel in his eyes. To see it when Bitty smiles. He nuzzles their noses together and mumbles, “Morning, babe.”

Bitty shifts closer and Kent’s skin buzzes in all the places they touch, and Bitty’s voice is rough and warm when he whispers back, “Mornin’, bunny,” and—

Kent’s known what being in love feels like since he was sixteen. He’s known that loving Jack is a heart beating so fast it cracks ribs and air so cold and clean it shreds up his dirty fucking lungs and a song that stops halfway through and singing and singing until his throat is raw trying to bring it back.

He’s known that loving Annie is doing morning yoga hungover at two in the afternoon and sneaking into concerts they bought box seats for and coming with a hand shoved down his pants in the back row like a teenager and scratches down his back that turn bright red in the shower when he washes her perfume away.

He’s known that loving Jeff is the smell of fresh-cut grass while children laugh in the yard and drinking cheap hot chocolate while crammed into expensive hotel room beds and the fucking tremble in his hands when he hears,  _ ‘We’re a family,’  _ for the first time.

And suddenly Kent knows, as much as he wishes he fucking didn’t, that loving Bitty is this:

Tequila salt stinging his lips and the bitterness of red wine.

Bite marks on the inside of his thighs.

Waking up in patches of sunlight and being called “bunny” and fucking in the bathroom so no one will see and fucking in the bedroom so everyone will and the best pecan pie he’s ever eaten and wanting to be lied to for the rest of his fucking life and  _ please, please don’t be lying when you kiss me like that. _

“You zonin’ out on me, honey?” Bitty teases, brushing fingers across Kent’s cheek again.

Kent turns his head to kiss at Bitty’s fingertips. “Nah,” he says, “just thinking about how beautiful you are.”

Bitty tucks his head into Kent’s chest to hide the blush that’s rising to his face and mumbles, “You charmer.”

Kent hums, kissing the top of Bitty’s head. “Let me make you breakfast?”

Bitty’s smile brushes against Kent’s arm. “Gonna burn the eggs again?”

“Only ‘cause you asked nicely,” Kent chirps back, ruffling Bitty’s hair, and stretches before he stand s.

 

~*~

 

Kent doesn’t burn the eggs, but his potatoes come out a little soggy—Bitty promises to teach him how to cook them better tomorrow, and Kent only thinks,  _ ‘Christ, I love you,’  _ twice between then and the next morning, which he honestly considers a victory.

Vienna gets voted off the show and Bitty flirts with Kent the entire HoH competition, which Kent isn’t entirely convinced isn’t intentionally distracting. They’ve done a pretty good job ignoring what will happen when their conflicting alliances actually come to a head, and Bitty’s a hell of a lot more competitive than he pretends to be.

Annie wins the competition and Bitty asks, later that night while they nuzzle against each other sleepily in the hammock, drowsy with wine, “Should I be playin’ double agent or somethin’?”

Kent sets his glass down on the ground so he can hold Bitty with both arms, his now-free hand coming up to stroke through his hair. “Nah, we’ll just be—we’ll be like star-crossed lovers or whatever. Romeo and Juliet.”

Bitty’s face turns pensive, eyes brooding and soft when he looks up at Kent and reminds him, “Romeo and Juliet died for each other.”

Yeah, Kent still forgets that’s a bad thing, sometimes.

 

~*~

 

Bitty is humming something to himself while he brushes his teeth, garbled around his toothbrush and a little off-key, and it hurts somewhere in the thick of Kent’s spine to think about being without that.

Bitty rinses his mouth and reaches over to put his toothbrush away and he’s  _ right there  _ and Kent puts a hand on the small of his back and kisses his cheek before he can stop himself, before he can remember how to put his hands in his pockets to keep them from shaking.

They’re alone. Bitty blushes rose-pink and looks behind Kent at the locked door, like he’s expecting a camera to be there.

There isn’t, and he leans in and presses a kiss to the corner of Kent’s mouth anyway—sweet and shy and like it’s the first time they’ve ever touched, and Kent holds his breath when he tilts his face to the side and catches Bitty’s lips against his.

Bitty winds his arms around Kent’s neck and pushes up into it gently, rocking up onto his toes and kissing with a giddy desperation, like there’s something he can taste in it, and Kent grabs onto his hips and falls back against the door to keep his knees from giving out.

It hurts like ropes falling away from his wrists.

It’s the sounds of heavy breathing and soft laughter and the little nip against Kent’s bottom lip—because Bitty can never keep his fucking teeth out of anything and Kent loves it—loves him and his bruises and his hands too-tight in Kent’s hair, and Bitty is here kissing him and smiling and—

“Hey, lovebirds!” Jess shouts through the door. “The luxury competition’s starting.”

Kent squeezes his eyes shut with a grimace, then checks his watch. “Now? It’s always at—”

Jess cuts him off impatiently, “They moved it up, no idea why. Suck face or dicks or whatever you’re doing later, c’mon.”

Kent sighs, but smiles when he meets Bitty’s eyes again. “Both?”

Bitty smiles back, eyes crinkling. His face is flushed and his hair is all fucked up and he’s never looked this good before—this happy, maybe. “Both,” he agrees, and kisses Kent one last time before he opens the door.

 

~*~

 

They gather in the yard for the competition, taking in the podiums that are set up in a line with paneling in between them so they won’t be able to see each other. Some kind of quiz show, then, but the only weird thing is that the podiums are bigger than normal. Like they could each fit two people. Huh.

As HoH, Annie gets to host competitions like this sometimes, but today Julie is there on screen to direct them instead, and Annie goes to stand with everyone else near the pool while Julie explains the rules.

“Good morning, houseguests,” she greets, and everyone choruses  _ ‘Good morning, Julie,’  _ back in a way that’s always felt a little creepy to Kent, but whatever. He’s not really paying much attention—he keeps stealing glances at Bitty instead, who smiles back at him and bites at his lip shyly.

“Today, your luxury competition is going to be a little special. You’re going to be working in teams of two to answer questions about each other,” Julie says.

Kent looks over at Bitty again and smirks. This should be a piece of cake.

Julie makes a tutting noise that stops everyone in their tracks as they move to pair off. “But there’s a twist, everyone. You won’t be playing with each other.” She pauses to let her words sink in. “No, you’ll each be playing with someone you know a little better than that.”

The sliding door opens behind them and everyone turns in confusion, and—

Kent’s jaw drops open. “Zimms?”

Jack fucking Zimmermann smiles sheepishly as he leads a crowd of people out onto the deck, giving Kent an awkward wave because he’s a fucking dork, and Kent takes off running like Jack might disappear if he doesn’t get there fast enough.

Jack grunts when Kent tackles him, but stays standing, his arms coming up to hug Kent back. “Hey, bud.”

“Hey, Zimms,” Kent murmurs. He takes a breath to steady himself and asks, “Remember how you said not to do anything stupid?”

Jack mutters, “Should’ve known you’d take it as a challenge, eh?” and squeezes Kent hard before he pulls away. “It’s good to see you.”

“You too, asshole,” Kent answers warmly. He looks around; everyone else is still hugging their loved ones and talking to them. Bitty is laughing brightly and trying to wriggle out of a headlock while some guy with a mustache gives him a noogie. “I’m, uh—I’m surprised you came.”

Jack frowns, confused. “Why wouldn’t I?”

Kent looks at the mic box clipped to Jack’s shorts. “Uh, you know—cameras and all that shit, not really your speed.”

“This might actually be less cameras than have been showing up at the apartment,” Jack comments wryly, and Kent winces.

“Zimms, I—”

Jack puts a hand on the back of Kent’s neck and squeezes soothingly. “Later. It’s okay.”

Kent purses his lips and nods, looks over at Bitty one more time before Julie tells them to come stand at the podiums.

She explains that the goal of the competition is to answer questions about their partners; if they answer correctly, they get a point. Every houseguest who passes the point threshold not only wins real food for the week, but gets to spend all day with their loved one—which explains why the competition got moved to the morning instead of being held in the afternoon.

Everyone except Aaron and Erika manage to win the challenge, and they all split off to spend some alone time with the friends, family, and partners they haven’t seen in over a month—Jamal makes a big show of locking everyone out of one of the bedrooms to be alone with his wife, which Kent rolls his eyes at. He’s happy for them, though—Jamal really misses her a lot while they’re apart.

And it’s not like Kent doesn’t know the feeling, sprawling on the couch next to Jack. Their knees knock together when Kent hands Jack a beer, and he can’t bring himself to break the touch—fuck, he wants to be pressed all up against Jack, but he can’t—and when Jack smiles in thanks, Kent has to look away.

Kent twirls his beer bottle in his hands, picks at the label between his fingers. Jack’s is already peeled off and on the coffee table, curling up around the edges like it still wants to be wrapped around something.

“How much, uh—” Kent pauses, clears his throat. “How much have you watched?”

Jack looks at him with furrowed eyebrows, like it’s a dumb question. Maybe it is. “Ah, all of it? Well, not much of the livestreams, but Tater tells us about those.”

Kent snorts. “Of course he does.”

Jack smiles, takes a sip of his beer.

“So, uh—you’ve seen—”

“He seems great, Parse.” Jack looks over at Kent and purses his lips, licking at them like he does when he’s working out how to say something. “You seem—happy.”

Kent tears the label halfway off his bottle before he figures out how to say, “I, uh—I am.”

Jack presses his knee into Kent’s and, Christ—Kent wants to tell him everything, wants to say,  _ ‘None of this was supposed to happen’  _ and  _ ‘I’m so fucking scared’  _ and  _ ‘It was supposed to be you’  _ and—

He can’t say any of that. And he can’t say,  _ ‘I actually am in love with him’  _ or  _ ‘I just wish it were you too’  _ and the only words he has left are little pale slivers of things that feel like handing over a pile of thorns and calling it a rose, and Kent’s fingers itch like he’s smearing pinpricks of blood across the coffee table when he puts his beer bottle down.

The thing about Jack is that he just kinda sits there until you vomit words at him, usually, and normally Kent’s fine with that because he has a hard time shutting the fuck up anyway—but right now Kent would literally kill someone to not have to pry more words out of his mouth.

Maybe Jack gets the memo for once, though, because he clears his throat and says, “You should know, uh—you’re not the only out player anymore.”

“What?” Kent sits up straighter and almost knocks his bottle over in the process. “You mean—who—?”

“Jeff Troy started it, which shouldn’t be all that surprising,” Jack explains wryly, and yeah, he’s right. Starting some kind of queer ‘I am Spartacus’ shit is  _ exactly _ up Jeff’s fucking alley. “I don’t—”

Jack looks around, fixating on a cameraman sitting off to the side, and grimaces. He scrubs a hand over his face and finishes anyway, “I don’t think he meant to. He snapped in an interview—said something snide about how of course he wasn’t uncomfortable in the dressing room with you, he’s not a hypocrite.”

Kent laughs. He tries his best to keep the bitterness out of it. “Yeah, that’s Jeff. What’d he say, uh—?”

“Bisexual,” Jack says, and doesn’t add anything else, which—it’s not like Kent thought Jeff would out them as polya on  _ purpose,  _ but—there hasn’t been a lot of intent going around. “He and his wife have been pretty outspoken on Twitter, apparently—calling out biphobes and stuff.”

Kent’s lips twitch with something almost like nostalgia. Shani spent a lot of years unlearning internalized shit—something she passed onto him—and she’s unapologetic now. Proud. He misses her like fucking hell.

Jack says, “Then Snowy came out the next day, and, ah—Simmons, you know—heh, his actual tweet was just a pun on being an ace-Ace, which was pretty funny—”

Kent snorts fondly. “He’s been making that pun for years. I think that’s half of why he was so pissed he got traded.”

“Vasquez and Bryant on the Aeros—not, ah, together, but—you know.” Which, actually—they’re totally together, but Kent gets not going public with that kind of relationship. “Uh—some retired players too. And, uh—”

Jack pauses, watching Kent’s expression carefully, and Christ—if he’s about to say—

“My dad,” Jack says quietly, and—

That was even  _ less  _ what Kent was expecting,  _ fuck.  _ “He—?”

“I’m sure he’ll want to talk to you himself, but uh—” Jack rubs the back of his neck uncomfortably. “He’s not labelling it, just—he said he’s had relationships with men, so—”

Jack shrugs and stops talking, his half sentence hanging in the air awkwardly. Kent wants to reach out like he could swat it away, wants to put a hand in Jack’s hair and hold him, wants to—

He can see the headlines if Jack ever wants to come out, now. Jesus Christ. There’s nowhere Bad Bob’s shadow doesn’t touch.

“Come with me,” Kent says suddenly, and pulls Jack to his feet. He knows it looks sketchy as fuck—that he’ll get chewed out for it later, probably—yanking Jack away from the mics and cameras and into the stupid fucking bathroom, but—

He has to put his hands on Jack’s shoulders and ask, “Are you okay?” He  _ has  _ to, and there’s no way in hell he’s doing it out there.

“Am  _ I  _ okay? Parse—”

“Zimms,” Kent presses, exasperated.

Jack closes his eyes and purses his lips. His shoulders sag a little, like the world is rolling off them. “I know why he did it,” he says. “I hate him for it anyway.”

Kent nods, itches to cup Jack’s jaw in his hand—almost does it anyway—squeezes the muscle in the crook of his neck instead. “You’re not your dad,” he says seriously, then slips into a smirk. “Your dad didn’t almost miss his own draft day ‘cause he was sucking dick in a bathroom. Probably.”

“Kenny!” Jack laughs, sharp and startled, which is exactly what Kent wanted. His smirk widens in triumph when Jack shoves him into the sink and says, “You’re such a dick.”

“You would know,” Kent mutters half-nonsensically, pushing away from the counter to have something to do. He hesitates, grits his teeth like he’s having stitches pulled out. “Be real with me, Jack—how bad is it?”

“It’s—about what you’d expect, publicly. Everyone’s too scared to say anything blatant, especially after other players came out too.” Jack scrubs a hand over his face with irritation. “You know, Jeff called me the day the footage hit—so did some of the others. Everyone wanted—they wanted to know what was— _ why  _ it was happening.”

Kent runs a hand through his hair and tugs at the roots. He stares at the tiles in the shower.

“Why didn’t I know what was happening, Parse?” Jack asks. It sounds like an accusation. It probably is one, even if he’d deny it—Jack’s always been bratty like that.

There’s too much flint in Kent’s blood to stay standing, moving around. Like he’ll catch on something and they’ll burn like a brushfire. Again. He sinks to the ground and puts his face in his hands and doesn’t speak until Jack sits down next to him with their shoulders and thighs pressed together.

“What did they air?”

Jack shifts, and Kent can practically  _ feel  _ him frowning. “What—?”

“What did they air, Jack?” Kent repeats impatiently. “How did I come out?”

“Parse—” Jack starts, then freezes. Then actually answers the goddamn question. “You were in the backyard—Bitty kissed you, practically on accident—you kissed him back.”

Kent sighs, almost a laugh of relief, and presses his fingers into his eyes. “That was the cute version. Shoulda known that’s not my speed, Zimms.”

He’s being a little cryptic and that’s not really fair to Jack who has problems working out that kinda shit, but Jack puts an arm around Kent’s shoulders anyway and waits.

Kent gives up—presses his face into Jack’s chest and shakes apart a little and whispers, “They were gonna out me. I didn’t—there wasn’t—Bitty came up with it. He said—we could make it look better, if we pretended.”

“Kenny—” Jack manages, pushing his face into Kent’s hair, and runs out of words except, “Fuck.”

“Yeah,” Kent agrees, “fuck.”

Jack wraps his other arm around Kent and pulls him closer, holds Kent against his chest like it could fix anything, everything—they both know it can’t, just like Kent knows better than to tilt his head up and look Jack in his fucking soft, heart-achingly blue fucking eyes.

Just like Jack knows better than to lean in and close the distance in a too-gentle kiss, like Kent’s lips are eggshells, like he needs to be glued back together. It feels like cutting the infection out of a wound. Like healing.

They pull away before the door opens, but Kent’s not sure the way they’re looking at each other is actually less incriminating.

Bitty says, “I—” and Kent buries his face into Jack’s neck, ashamed even if he’s not sure he’s supposed to be.

It hurts all over, the way Bitty’s voice shakes when he accuses, “You said you weren’t seeing anyone.”

Kent can’t bring himself to lift his head when he says, “I’m not. This isn’t—”

“He’s my ex,” Jack cuts in carefully. His voice is rough anyway. “It’s nice to meet you.”

Bitty snorts. “Is it?”

Jack’s right arm falls away, but he keeps the other around Kent’s shoulders—either defensively or out of habit, Kent can’t tell, but it makes him lift his head—he realizes that Bitty’s friend is in the room with them too, leaning up against the door with a confused expression. Which is like, even more awkward, great.

“I thought you said—” Jack hesitates, looking over at Bitty and his friend, then back to Kent. “You’re not actually together?”

Bitty’s shoulders go tense and his expression is pinched. Kent wants to kiss the pout out of his lips, but instead he mutters, “It’s complicated,” under his breath, which is pretty much drowned out by mustache-guy’s really loud, “Wait, what the fuck?”

Bitty winces a little, like he forgot his friend was there. “Um—this is Shitty. He needs to get caught up.”

They fill in Shitty—which is probably in the top three of weirdest hockey nicknames Kent’s ever heard—and then spend a good six or seven minutes convincing him he doesn’t need to sue the production company on their behalf.

He gives it up, though, and finally concludes, “Well, this is thoroughly fucked up, my dudes.”

“No shit,” Kent mutters.

Shitty either doesn’t hear it or ignores him, because he just turns to Bitty and asks, “Wait, so the letter from your mom—”

Bitty worries at his bottom lip. “Real.”

“And last week, uh—after the pool—”

Kent thinks if he said  _ ‘Real,’  _ it’d sound like a sob. Like he was begging for it. He snipes, “Yeah, we fucked on camera, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Shitty’s eyes widen, like he’s scandalized—or maybe just surprised. “But you hadn’t—”

“We did,” Bitty says, “plenty,” and it’s the first time he’s sounded like he regrets it.

“Bits—”

“I don’t want a lecture from you, Shitty,” Bitty snaps. His eyes are cold, scorched-up driftwood when he turns on Kent. “And he clearly doesn’t either.”

Kent bristles. “What the fuck’s that supposed to mean?”

“Why’d you tell me about Annie if you weren’t—”

Jack interrupts, “He knows about Annie?”

_ “He  _ knows about Annie?”

There’s a weighted pause, so heavy Kent can barely breathe. Like there’s a hand to his face, smothering him. He looks over at Jack—droopy-eyed and confused and beautiful—and back to Bitty, who’s fighting really fucking hard to keep the hurt off his face.

Kent says, “We don’t keep secrets.”

Not after Kent caught Jack popping extra pills in that block party bathroom back in ’08, anyway. They’ll be a lot of things, but they’ll never be that again if it’s the last fucking thing Kent ever does.

“Not from each other,” Bitty answers quietly, which cuts the exact way he meant it to and Kent would reel from it, if he had anywhere to go. “We’ve been in here too long. We should get back on camera.”

He heads for the door, Shitty trailing dutifully, but Jack says, “Wait a second—shouldn’t we talk about this a little more?”

Which, there’s something kinda ironic about Jack Zimmermann being the one championing for open communication to be honest, and Kent has to suppress a laugh. No one else seems to think it’s funny, though, even if Shitty agrees, “Uh, he’s got a point, Bits.”

“I’ve heard everything I need to,” Bitty answers flatly. “Or seen, I guess.”

Jack stiffens; Kent puts a hand on his elbow, a warning. “If you knew he’s polyamorous,” Jack asks slowly—in that soft, angry Captain voice that used to send shivers down Kent’s spine, “why does it matter how he feels about me?”

Bitty juts his chin out and backs up towards the door. “I guess it doesn’t matter much either way, since Kent says we’re not together, right?”

He’s out the door before anyone can stop him this time, and Kent moves to follow him but Jack grabs at his wrist, spins him back around.

Kent looks up at him and Jack opens his mouth, like there’s something to say—closes it helplessly instead. They’ve never been about words. Kent shakes his head, slips his wrist free, and pushes his way out the door.

 

~*~

 

Everyone’s loved ones have to leave before midnight, so they have a giant dinner to all spend time together. Jamal’s wife seems really nice.

 

~*~

 

Kent hugs Jack goodbye. It’s not enough and it lasts too long. He gets dragged off by production immediately after, and they chew him out over staying off camera for so long. He's not scared of anything they can do to him anymore.

 

~*~

 

It’s after the veto competition where Kent saved Jamal, and it’s the first time Bitty and Kent have spoken off camera since Jack and Shitty left. Kent starts, “Listen, when I said—”

“Why’d you leave Vegas?” Bitty asks. 

Kent can’t look Bitty in the eye, even through the reflection in the mirror. He says, “You know why.”

“Yeah,” Bitty answers softly, too quiet to be anything but bitter. “Guess I do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *dramatic piano music* Tune in next week for more ~suffering~


	7. Episode Seven

“How’re we gonna break up?” Bitty asks, in the middle of brushing his teeth on a Tuesday.

Kent jumps and drops his toothbrush into the sink, spraying foamed-up toothpaste everywhere with a harsh clatter. Bitty wipes a spot of it off his arm with a wrinkled nose.

“Uh—”  _ Don’t. Don’t leave me, please don’t fucking— _ “I don’t—?”

Bitty plucks Kent’s toothbrush out of the sink, hands it back to him, then rinses his own off under the faucet before he puts it away. He’s staring somewhere near Kent’s collarbone, avoiding his face. “We’ve gotta do it sooner or later. Might as well make a plan.”

“I—I don’t want—” Kent splutters desperately, but—he doesn’t know what the fuck to say. Bitty’s been brushing him off since last week, and Kent barely knows how to process that without it curling around the base of his spine like something ugly and cruel. “I don’t wanna do it on the show.”

Bitty turns away, leans up against the sink with his arms crossed and his eyes fixed on the far wall. “Fine. I don’t really want to either. So we’ll—put a couple weeks on it and release some kind of statement—”

“Pre-season,” Kent cuts in desperately, and Bitty shifts to stare at him. “Give me—wait until pre-season, when it’s not the only story in the news. And we can—blame it on schedules, or something—you’re in Boston and we’re busy and—and sometimes things don’t work out. No one’s the bad guy.”

Bitty is silent for a long time—so long Kent starts to suffocate with it. Quietly, he suggests, “Or maybe you just got tired of me.”

And Kent—Kent laughs, soft and broken and disbelieving. “No one’s gonna buy that.”

“Why?” Bitty asks. “It’s not like anyone thinks you’re in love with me.”

He keeps the door open behind him when he leaves, and Kent watches him go with thorns growing in his throat.

 

~*~

 

They’re forced to vote between Jessica and Aaron, and in the end it’s Aaron who goes home. Kent won’t really miss him much, but he hugs him goodbye at the door like he’s supposed to and acts like he’s worried about their potentially dwindling alliance. Mostly, he watches Bitty and itches to touch him and wonders why it feels like he can’t, like they’d shock each other and jump apart.

Virginia wins the HoH competition which is—really not good, actually, but it doesn’t really sink in until Kent gets nominated alongside Jamal the next day and Bitty turns to him with these big, worried eyes like he’s not gonna be fucking relieved if Kent goes home. And even then, Kent’s main thought is,  _ ‘He’s such a good goddamn liar.’ _

They curl up on the couch after the nomination ceremony, ostensibly to strategize but actually to make out apparently, Bitty half in Kent’s lap with his fingers curled in Kent’s shirt. Kent’s hands are shaking and he has nowhere to put them.

“We’ll figure it out,” Bitty murmurs, like it matters. Like he isn’t rigid in Kent’s arms at night, like he doesn’t roll away as soon as he can pretend he’s asleep. “If we don’t get the veto, I’ll talk to everyone—”

“I hate this,” Kent blurts, cutting an arc through the air with his hand, grateful to have something to blame the words on. “I hate—I don’t want—”

“I know,” Bitty soothes, and presses his forehead to Kent’s temple. “I know, this isn’t the fun part.”

_ What was?  _ Kent thinks bitterly, and pulls away.  _ The part where you tricked us both into believing in this? _

And—maybe it’s not fair to pin it all on Bitty. Maybe Kent’s a grown fucking adult, responsible for his own emotions and all that shit, and it’s his fault he let himself get too attached—maybe he should’ve known better than to think Bitty’d actually want to stick around in his life after he showed the raw, messy parts. Maybe he should’ve asked.

It doesn’t make it any easier to breathe.

“Kent, sweetheart—”

“I, uh—” Kent’s voice cracks and he clears his throat awkwardly, dislodging Bitty from his lap to stand. “Sorry, I just need—I need to be alone? For a—just for—right now.”

He practically bolts for the bathroom and shuts the door behind him, hands curling into his own hair and eyes squeezing shut while he tries to get his lungs under control, and he should’ve fucking locked the door because  _ of course _ Bitty barges in not even a minute later.

“Parson, what the hell—”

“Oh, Jesus Christ—get out!” Kent snaps, lips curling into a snarl before he can stop himself.

Bitty looks shocked, eyes wide with hurt and concern—and for some reason the expression just makes Kent wanna punch something. “Are you okay?”

“I said,” Kent grits out, “I wanted to be alone.”

Which pisses Bitty off, apparently, like he’s personally offended Kent doesn’t want to listen to his bullshit 24/7, because his features go sharp again when he crosses his arms and asks, “How was I supposed to know you meant that?”

Kent rolls his eyes, digging his teeth into his tongue to try and keep the words from coming out. “I’m not the one acting my pretty fuckin’ heart out, out there.”

There’s an angry flush on Bittle’s face and his eyes are wet, like he’s pissed off enough to start crying. “You’re right—‘cause  _ I’m  _ the one trying to hold this thing together for us—for  _ your  _ career—and you’re—what—you’re giving up?”

Kent sucks in air through his nose. Holds it until his lungs burn. Pushes it out when he says, “Get out.”

“Yeah,” Bitty spits dismissively, “thought so.”

Kent folds over onto the sink, face pressed into his arms, and shakes with every inch of hurt in his blood.

 

~*~

 

“I’m sorry,” Kent whispers that night, voice trembling like the words could stain the pillowcase on their way to Bitty’s lips. “I’m so sorry.”

Bitty runs a hand through Kent’s hair gently, soft fingers scratching at his scalp. “It’s alright, sweetheart. It’s more than alright.”

He lets Kent sleep with his head on his chest.

 

~*~

 

“I meant it,” Kent says the next morning, around a mouthful of toothpaste before he loses his nerve. “The apology, I mean.”

Bitty chews on his bottom lip, eyes swimming when they meet Kent’s in the mirror. “I know.”

His fingers brush against the pulse point on Kent’s wrist as he leaves.

 

~*~

 

Kent’s team loses the luxury competition, which honestly just reinforces how badly he kinda wants to get the entire fuck out of this house. With dwindling numbers, it feels cavernous and too crowded all at once, like their echoes are bouncing off the walls and slapping each other in the face. And Bitty—

It’s not like he actually wants to be away from Bitty, it’s like—he just needs them to not be  _ here.  _ It feels like they’re tip-toeing around each other and still tripping over their feet—awkward and wooden and calves burning from the useless effort. If they could get out of here, maybe Kent could figure out how to fix this—or at least figure out if there’s something to fix. Because right now it just feels like sitting around waiting for something to rot, prodding at it with a stick to see if it’ll burst and if they’ll get out in time before the maggots come.

He’s not good with expiration dates.

And he misses Jack like hell—even if two months is nothing compared to, like, a decade—and whenever he’s not thinking about Bitty or how he’ll probably never eat a PB&J again or how annoying Erika’s laugh is, he’s thinking about the way Jack kissed him. About how he might do it again when Kent gets home.

So he’s not actually that invested in the conversation when—after watching Bitty plop down in Kent’s lap and feed him a bite of pie, all cute and tender and shit—Sarah coos at them and says, “Aww, you guys are so cute! Guys, how could you break this up?”

“What, I’m not cute enough for you?” Jamal chirps, flashing a toothy grin. Kent’s gonna miss him.

“Sorry, J—your wife is back home.” Sarah shrugs good-naturedly. “Kent and Bitty are cute right here.”

Bitty jabs his fork handle into Kent’s shoulder and Kent winces, but takes his cue anyway. “She makes a good point, bro.”

“I think the lovebirds’d survive a couple weeks apart,” Jess teases, stretching out with her feet in Virginia’s lap.

Bitty hums, shifting to nuzzle his face against Kent’s neck. “Mm, sure, but why would you  _ make  _ us? I’ve gotten real used to cuddlin’ every night.”

So has Kent. His chest kinda goes tight at the thought of sleeping alone again, actually. He wraps an arm around Bitty’s waist, careful not to knock the plate out of his hand, and says, “I’d miss you too, babe. We’ll, uh—we’ll make it work whatever happens, though, you know?”

Something changes in Bitty’s face that he hides in the crook of Kent’s shoulder—a flicker of irritation, maybe, before he can pull at his lips to make a smile. He lifts his head and kisses Kent’s cheek, tone careful when he answers, “I know, sweetheart. This is the real deal, huh?”

“Yeah,” Kent agrees, and clenches his teeth before his voice breaks.

 

~*~

 

Bitty glares at Kent’s reflection in the mirror. “You can’t say shit like that if—”

“Everyone says shit they don’t mean,” Kent snaps, defensive and desperate and a little scared it might be true. “That’s kinda your specialty, isn’t it?”

 

~*~

 

The veto competition is brutal, and Kent is tired and broody and doesn’t really fucking care, to be honest, and Annie wins it for Virginia. She keeps the nominations the same, which means either Kent or Jamal is definitely going home. They’ll have to be ready to leave right after the vote—no extra time to pack or do anything besides quick, mostly-hollow goodbyes.

The next few days are a blur of awkward politics and an honestly ridiculous amount of kissing—and Kent wakes up the morning of the ceremony with Bitty curled into his chest, face pressed into his shirt and arms trembling where they’re wrapped around his back. He brushes a hand through Bitty’s hair and murmurs, “Babe?”

Bitty looks up with those fucking doe eyes of his and whispers, “I don’t want you to go,” with so much sincerity Kent almost believes him.

“I—don’t wanna leave,” Kent answers helplessly, and Bitty offers a sad smile with a quirk of his lips before he kisses him. 

They untangle eventually and head into the bathroom to brush their teeth, and Bitty isn’t finished wiping the emotion off his face before he says, “Find me on Twitter if you get voted out. I’ll—get back to you when I can and we can, um—set something up, I guess.”

Kent spits into the sink and wipes his mouth off on the back of his hand, then agrees, “Uh, yeah. I’ll—I’ll do that.”

“Great.” Bitty hesitates, shoulders hunched over the counter. “Guess you better go pack.”

 

~*~

 

It’s not like Kent brought a lot of shit with him, so it doesn’t take much time to get most of his clothes together. Tracking down all the snapbacks and pairs of sunglasses that ended up scattered around the house takes a little longer, but he’s doing a final check of all his stuff with plenty of time to spare. He’s pretty sure he’s still got a shirt or two unaccounted for, though, which is kinda fucking annoying—but he thinks he remembers Bitty stealing that missing Schooners shirsey a couple weeks ago, so he goes to look through his dresser to see if it ended up there.

Digging through the first drawer doesn’t turn up anything, but Kent stops short when he pulls open the second one and finds—

A stuffed rabbit, half-buried under a mound of only kinda folded t-shirts in the corner. It’s— _ he’s,  _ Kent remembers—he’s clearly old and well-loved, with patches sewn on and mismatched button eyes and droopy ears that feel so soft when Kent runs them between his fingers in quiet wonder.

“You’re real,” he whispers, to a fucking stuffed rabbit, who doesn’t answer. There’s something tight and fucking awful in his chest and he can’t move, for a second, with the weight of it. He strokes an ear one more time and then touches a finger to the felt nose slowly, almost reverently.

“Take care of him for me, okay?” he murmurs, and slides the drawer back shut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A slightly shorter chapter this week, but next time will hopefully make up for it ;)


	8. Episode Eight

Before the votes are cast, the two houseguests nominated for eviction are allowed to give a little speech arguing for why they should get to stay. Sometimes they get kinda heated, but Kent isn’t expecting that to happen this week, and he’s right. Jamal’s speech is short and polite towards Kent—he finishes by saying he’ll miss having a workout partner, and Kent gives him a fistbump when he sits back down.

“Uh, hey,” Kent says as he stands up. “Uh, Jamal’s my bro, so I’m not really gonna say anything against him. And, you know, I’m pretty good for a locker room speech, but this isn’t that, so—I’ll just say, you know—I’m here playing for You Can Play, and I—I think we’ve shown how true that is. I can play, and Bitty can play, and so can anyone else watching at home, wondering if they can too.”

Kent clears his throat and laughs awkwardly. “I guess I kinda made it a locker room speech anyway. But, uh, the last thing is—” He turns to look right at Bitty, whose head is downturned, staring at his hands fidgeting in his lap. “I’m gonna miss you, babe, if I go. Thank you—uh, just, for doing this with me.”

Bitty looks up, biting at his bottom lip with his teeth. His voice is wet when he answers, “I’ll miss you too, bunny.”

Kent nods jerkily and sits back down, and waits as everyone shuffles off one by one to vote.

 

~*~

 

It’s a close vote, in the end—three to two—but Kent gets voted off the show.

He tries to look an appropriate amount of upset over it and isn’t really sure if he hits the mark, but he hugs everyone goodbye, whispering good luck to Jamal and saving Bitty for last. Everyone else clears away to give them some privacy—which Kent kinda finds funny, considering there’s a cameraman five feet away, but it’s instinct, probably.

They stand there awkwardly for a second, hesitating, before Bitty shifts forward and pulls Kent into a tight hug. He’s not crying, but it feels like he could if he put some effort into it when he murmurs, “I’ll see you soon, sweetheart.”

“Not too soon though, yeah?” Kent tells him. “Kick some ass, babe.”

Bitty laughs, pressing his face into Kent’s cheek. “I’ll try.”

He turns his head, mouth brushing against Kent’s, and Kent kisses him. It’s aching and soft and it was probably a mistake, because Kent can feel his hands shaking and he knows Bitty can tell, and there’s nowhere to go with it that doesn’t hurt—nowhere that doesn’t remind Kent, with a dark pull at his ribs, that he loves him.

Bitty sucks Kent’s bottom lip into his mouth as he pulls away, the faintest scrape of teeth.

 

~*~

 

Kent’s the first member of the jury, which means that instead of getting to go home, he gets stuck in a sequestered house until the show is over—because the jury isn’t allowed to watch the show before deciding who wins, and also they probably hate Kent personally or something. At least there aren’t any fucking cameras this time.

The house fills up little by little as more people get voted off. He’s reunited with Jamal in two weeks and Jess in three, and they spend their time watching movies—thank  _ Christ  _ they get to have movies—and hanging out on the private beach. Every week they get updates from the show—heavily filtered content that doesn’t really spoil too much about what’s happening, but as people join the jury house, they gossip about the drama they’ve been privy to along the way, anyway.

Bitty ends up in the final two against Sarah and Kent’s, like, insufferably proud, to be honest. He’s not shy about campaigning for him to the other jury members either, and—

Kent’s pretty good at getting what he wants.

Bitty wins the show by a large margin, and You Can Play gets a fifty thousand dollar donation. So Patrick Burke basically owes Kent and Bitty his soul, but whatever. Kent won’t lord it over him too much or anything.

Kent kisses Bitty for the first time in a month on live television, and then gets on a plane without him.

 

~*~

 

Kent’s plane touches down in Providence half an hour late. He shoves a snapback onto his head and sunglasses onto his face—and yeah, he’s aware it’s almost midnight and he looks like a douchebag—in an effort to avoid getting recognized and hauls his suitcase down from the overhead compartment. He’s expecting Jack to be waiting outside in the car, probably, but—nope. Jack’s standing there at the gate, hands shoved in his pockets and rocking on his heels with nervous energy.

So much for incognito.

Kent ignores the constant buzzing of his phone as all his notifications roll in and launches himself at Jack for a hug, ripping his sunglasses off while he does.

“Ha, hey Kenny,” Jack says with a chuckle, nudging his nose into Kent’s hair where his snapback’s been knocked off-center. “Let’s get you home.”

“Christ, please do,” Kent gripes. He untangles from Jack and grabs his suitcase handle in one hand and his phone in the other. He’s halfway through dialing when he asks, “Uh, do you mind if I call—” gesturing vaguely.

Jack shakes his head, and Kent puts the phone to his ear.

Jeff picks up on the third ring, sounding exhausted but in a good enough mood. “Kent? I didn’t think we’d hear from you ‘til tomorrow, man.”

“Nah, bro,” Kent answers easily, “you’re my first call. If you’re busy, though—”

“I just got the kids in bed, it’s fine. Shani’s in the bath, I think—I’ll go get her, hold on.”

Kent waits patiently, walking to the car and knocking shoulders with Jack while they go, until he hears splashing and distant laughing on the other end of the line. He just barely makes out Shani saying,  _ ‘Baby, get your ass outta my bath!’  _ and Jeff, louder, answering, “Kent’s on the phone.”

There’s a click that must mean Kent’s on speaker now, because he can hear Shani clearly when she chirps, “Well, I  _ guess  _ you can stay if you brought Kent with you.”

“Hey, pretty woman,” Kent says, smirking fondly. “You can kick him out, you know. I only wanna talk to you anyway.”

Jeff squawks indignantly and Shani laughs. “Hey, sweet-talker. You doing okay?”

“Zimmermann, uh—filled us in on what happened,” Jeff explains. “Shit’s rough, man.”

Kent presses the side of his hand to his face before bringing the phone back to his ear. They’re almost at Jack’s truck. “Uh, yeah, I—I’m okay. How’re you guys though? Jack told me—”

“We’re fine,” Jeff interrupts. “Fighting the fight and all that shit. It’s kinda fun.”

Kent rolls his eyes—of course Jeff would say that. “Uh, great. I’m—it means a lot, you know. What you did, Jeff.”

“Kent, I—” Jeff hesitates and Kent hears some shifting on the other end of the line, Shani murmuring something he can’t make out. He pictures her running her hands through Jeff’s hair—closes his eyes, wishes he could be there too. “I know you didn’t choose this, but—what you’re doing—what you  _ did _ —it’s incredible, for everyone. We’re just making it easier for you.”

Jack tugs Kent’s suitcase out of his hand and tosses it in the back seat. He touches his forehead to Kent’s briefly and gestures to the driver’s seat, where he goes to sit and wait.

Kent smiles weakly and leans against the car with his eyes closed. “Jeff, that’s not—that’s not all you are. That’s never been—”

“We know, sweetie,” Shani cuts in. “We miss you too.”

Kent squeezes his eyes shut tighter. He can feel the tension growing in his chest, the lump swelling in his throat. Things didn’t explode with Jeff and Shani like they did with Annie—the hurt was quiet, understanding. The kind that calls you late at night to remind you, softly, exactly what you’ve given up.

He still wonders if it was worth it.

Kent breathes in slowly, as deeply as he can. He asks, “Can I, uh—can I call tomorrow? Talk to the kids?”

They’re quiet just long enough for Kent to know they’re sharing a look, communicating silently. Shani answers, “Yeah, of course. We’ll be home until three our time. Why don’t you Skype?”

“They’d love to see you, man,” Jeff adds. He sounds sincere. More than Kent deserves, probably.

“I’d love that too,” Kent says, voice shaking. “I’ll, uh—I’ll let you guys relax. Talk to you tomorrow?”

“Sounds good, bud.”

Shani hums her agreement. Then she says, with so, so much fucking warmth, “We love you, Kent.”

It hurts to open his eyes. The pavement is cold, dark under the sliver-thin moon. “I love you guys too.”

He hangs up the phone.

 

~*~

 

Jack drives them back to his—their, technically—apartment. Kent was supposed to just crash there while he hunted for a new place after his trade, but—Kent was picky about where he wanted to live, and Jack was really only an asshole for maybe a month or two before they made nice, and then it just—Kent’s never claimed to not be selfish, okay? And Jack never brought up Kent moving out once.

So it’s their apartment, probably, that Jack pushes Kent up against the door of when he cups Kent’s face in his hands and leans in.

And it’s their apartment, probably, even if Kent shuts his eyes and turns his head and practically chokes out, “I can’t.”

Jack presses his forehead up against Kent’s, like he did in the parking lot, and asks, “Kenny?”

Kent’s hands are curled in Jack’s shirt. He doesn’t remember putting them there. This was never everything he ever wanted but it’s always been close. He says, “I need to—I have to talk to Bitty, before we—you saw how he reacted before and it’s—that’s not fair.”

Jack’s always been selfish too. He moves in closer, so close Kent can feel their bodies buzzing for each other, like they always have.  _ Parse and Zimms, Zimms and Parse.  _ “Yeah, I did—and he said you’re not together. It’s not—”

“Jack,” Kent begs. His voice cracks over the word, like it did when he was a teenager. “I’m sorry.”

Jack pulls away, then, with a sigh that slips out even though Kent’s positive it wasn’t supposed to, and says, “Okay. It’s okay, I’ll wait.” He brushes a thumb across Kent’s cheek before moving away entirely. “We should get some sleep then, eh?”

“Yeah,” Kent agrees. He leaves his bag at the door and finally kicks out of his shoes, then makes his way into the apartment.

“We’re going to the gym tomorrow morning, though,” Jack warns. He yawns, stretching his arms over his head, then looks back at Kent with a smirk. “You’re looking a little lean, Kenny. They didn’t feed you enough protein?”

“Ugh,” Kent groans, shoving at Jack’s chest. He doesn’t even budge, the fucker. “Whatever, asshole. I’ll outpace you on the treadmill.”

Jack hip-checks Kent on his way to the bedroom, his way of saying goodnight.

Kent rolls his eyes and pushes through the ache in his chest as he heads into his own room, where he finds Kit curled up on his pillow. She looks up, twitches an unimpressed ear at him, and goes back to sleep.

“I missed you too, Princess,” he coos, immediately beelining to her to give her kisses. She  _ mrows  _ quietly, a purr starting up deep in her throat, as Kent pets her while he undresses and gets ready for bed.

He checks his phone to see if he’s gotten a response from Bitty yet—he hasn’t—and curls up under the covers, laughing quietly when Kit paws at his face to demand more attention. “Hey, kitty-kitty,” he murmurs, running a hand through her fur. “At least I’m not sleeping alone, right?”

 

~*~

 

It takes almost three weeks to actually see Bitty again, and Kent’s like, decently sure that it’s because Bitty’s avoiding him. There’s no way he’s not making scheduling a nightmare on purpose, and Kent basically ends up throwing his hands into the air and offering to clear an entire fucking weekend so Bitty doesn’t have an excuse anymore.

So they wind up at some burger place in Boston for dinner—Bruins territory, and not in the casual way—Kent gets spotted within five minutes of sitting down and has to do the whole pictures-with-fans thing, even though these guys probably cheer like crazy every time Kent gets slammed into their boards. It’s not like he’s not used to it, though, and no one gets weird about him being queer even if they don’t acknowledge Bitty at all, so—could be worse.

“Not gonna lie,” Kent says as he picks up a menu, “this isn’t really the kinda place I thought you’d take us.”

Bitty snorts—it sounds mostly good-natured. “What, were you expecting somewhere more high-brow?”

“Uh, maybe.” Kent’s mouth is kinda watering at the picture of the triple-cheeseburger, though, so it’s not like he’s complaining. “But this is chill.”

Bitty hooks his ankle around Kent’s under the table, and then seems as surprised by the action as Kent is. He looks around a little, though, at the fans who are still staring, and makes a point of not pulling away. “Well, it’s not like I give away all my secrets on the first date, Mr. Parson,” he drawls, smirking a little.

Kent leans in towards him, elbows resting on the table. “Mm, that mean you’re not taking me home tonight, babe?”

The smirk immediately drops off Bitty’s face and his voice goes cold. “What do you think?”

And, like, Kent was just chirping, mostly—maybe needling a little, but he’s definitely not trying to be a dick about it or anything, and Bitty used to love bantering with him like this—used to love  _ fucking  _ him, Kent thought, and now—

They haven’t had sex since before Jack’s visit on the show.

Kent doesn’t know how to say anything about it without provoking a fight. All the words feel wrong under his skin and he can feel the itch of his temper and he knows he needs to find a way to do better than this. But Bitty is staring at him with—something—in his eyes and he moves his foot away under the table and Kent feels the loss like a brand.

“Uh, sorry, I wasn’t—”

Bitty picks up his menu again and says, with all the pleasantry in the fucking world, “I was thinkin’ about a milkshake. Do you want one, sweetheart?”

Kent might throw up. “Uh, yeah. A milkshake sounds great.”

They order milkshakes and their food and sit in uncomfortable silence for a good five minutes after the waitress leaves, until Kent clears his throat and asks, “Uh, have you been catching up on  _ Real Housewives?” _

Bitty seems to perk up a little at that—or at least pretends to—because he looks up from his phone eagerly enough and says, “I watched a marathon last night, actually. Can you  _ believe  _ that fight they had?”

Kent definitely doesn’t do a mental victory lap or anything. He can’t stop the smile that spreads onto his face, though. “The one on the yacht?  _ Dude.” _

Which is a conversation that carries them through dinner pretty well, and then they end up going for a walk through the city so it looks less like Kent’s getting into his car and driving home without so much as kissing his supposed-boyfriend. His hands are shoved in his pockets and Bitty’s are waving through the air when he talks—on a tangent now about the time he baked a pie for Ashley Tisdale—and Kent’s throat goes tight whenever he tries to make words come out.

They wind up back near his car eventually, though, and it’s either spit it out or wait even longer to say it, so—

“Uh, I actually—” Kent winces at the weird pitch of his voice. “I actually wanted to talk to you about something?”

Bitty bites at his bottom lip and cautiously asks, “What?”

Kent sucks in a breath through his nose. He’s never really been on this side of the conversation before, not like this. He wishes he could call up Annie and ask for advice—but he’s been asking too much of her for too long already and it’s just something else in the list of un-fucking-fair things he’s been demanding of everyone, and he won’t do it anymore.

So it’s the best he knows how to do when he says, “Um, I’ve—been talking to Jack, and—we, uh—we wanna get back together? But I wanted to ask if you’re—”

“What does it matter what I think?” Bitty cuts in. His eyes are flashing in the streetlights and he feels far away, like Kent could reach out to touch him and his hand would go right through. “This isn’t real, right? You can do whatever you want.”

Kent swallows hard, feels his throat bob around the choking sound he’d make if he tried to speak. He gets in the car and drives off without another word.

 

~*~

 

Jack is awake when Kent gets home, watching something on the TV that Kent doesn’t even stop to process. He throws his keys down and forgets to take his shoes off and collapses into Jack’s lap in the same breath he kisses him.

He shakes through his breaths and cries with Jack’s hands in his hair, and there’s still nothing in his life that’s ever felt like enough.

 

~*~

 

He goes on three more dinner dates with Bitty before the pre-season starts, and for the most part they go better than the first one. It’s a little awkward, sure, and they still snap at each other when someone words something badly or Kent asks the wrong question, but—

There are moments—when he makes Bitty laugh and his face is all lit up, flushed around his late-summer freckles, and his eyes are sparkling like they used to—that Kent starts to think,  _ Maybe we can get it back. _ And he’s—not convinced Bitty would ever be comfortable with polyamory, with the way he’s been reacting so far—and that would have to be okay. Kent would move on, eventually, and he has Jack. And, Christ, he’s so happy to have Jack.

But Bitty—

He laughs, sometimes, and forgets himself a little and brushes his hand against Kent’s arm or leans against his side while they walk down the street, and Kent—

Kent loves him too, and he’s not ready to move on—not yet. He just needs to figure out how to say all that, like, out loud. Great.

So a week into pre-season, Kent calls Bitty up and tells him they should hang out at Kent’s place next time.

“What?” Bitty asks flatly. He shuts off a mixer he had going in the background.

“It’s just, uh—it’s kinda weird, you know? That we never post pictures in our apartments,” Kent argues. He makes a show of ignoring the eyebrow raise Jack gives him. “And we never—we’re never around each other’s—friends, either. It’ll—it’ll look like we didn’t try.”

Bitty is quiet for a long time. His voice is strained when he says, “Fine, I’ll come over next week. Make me dinner,” and then hangs up the phone.

 

~*~

 

Kent’s plan goes, like, weirdly better than expected.

Bitty shows up early with ingredients for a pie in reusable shopping bags dangling from his arms, because of course he does, and furrows his eyebrows in confusion when he spots Jack in an apron. “Um, hello?”

Jack laughs sheepishly, nudging Kent with his hip. “You, ah, don’t wanna eat anything Kenny cooks, trust me. I volunteered for your safety.”

Bitty’s lips twitch and the uneasy line of tension in his shoulders seems to melt a little. He turns to Kent with a raised eyebrow and asks, “You’re gonna let him slander you like that?”

“I’m basically better than him at everything else,” Kent chirps, clapping Jack on the back and getting a muttered,  _ ‘Fuck you, man,’  _ in return. “Gotta let him have something, right?”

Bitty actually does smile at that, and pulls out his phone. “Well, I’m tweeting this, then. You can help me bake.”

The dinner is pretty fun, for the most part—there’s an awkward moment where Jack kisses Kent and Bitty goes tense, but kinda seems to get over it—and Twitter eats up the pictures Bitty posts of the whole thing. Kent offers to let Bitty crash in the guest room—or, well, the room Kent used to sleep in—but he turns it down.

“It’s, you know—” Bitty starts, waving his hand absently, but then his phone rings and he gets distracted answering it. “Hi, Mama—you’re up late!”

He wanders off into the living room to take the call, and Kent makes a point of not eavesdropping by washing the dishes in the sink. Loudly.

And then Kent kind of wishes he’d listened in a little, because Bitty’s eyes are red when he comes back into the room. Kent frowns with worry and asks, “Are you—?”

“I gave you your pre-season,” Bitty says. His voice is cold, barely shaking. “We can break up now. I think next week—”

“No,” Kent blurts, then clamps his mouth shut. He’s not—he doesn’t know what he’s saying or how, but he knows he’s not ready for Bitty to leave. “I, uh—I just—the pre-season’s been really shitty, and I—if we break up now, you know what the press is gonna say.”

Bitty scrubs a hand over his face and looks behind Kent at Jack—must see something in his face because he looks away. “The Aeros have Vasquez and Bryant and they’re on a three-game win streak.”

“I’m still the only out player publicly dating another man,” Kent presses desperately. “I know you read the headlines, the shit they say. Just—just give me a little more time, okay? Please.”

“I—” Bitty hesitates, closing his eyes for a second while he thinks. “Fine, we can wait. Just get your shit together, Parse.”

Kent promises, “I will, okay? Just—thank you.”

Bitty leaves and Kent presses his forehead against the door after it clicks shut. When he pulls away, Jack raises a wry eyebrow and asks, “Since when do you care about headlines?”

“Shut up, or I won’t blow you in the shower,” Kent mutters irritably, and only feels a little better when Jack grabs him by the hips and pulls him in.

Yeah, Kent’s shit is so fucking far from together.

 

~*~

 

Kent meets Bitty’s college buddies—the ones who stayed in the area, anyway, which is actually a surprising majority. If any of them besides Shitty are clued into the situation, they’re really, really fucking committed actors.

He pretends it doesn’t basically rip his heart out of his chest when Holster claps them both on the back and shouts, “Holy shit, Bits, when’s the fucking wedding?”

Bitty’s smile is so tight his lips might split open.

Kent chirps, “We eloped in Vegas last week. None of you fuckers were invited.”

 

~*~

 

Bitty’s kisses taste like lemon-lime KoolAid and cheap vodka.

Everyone jeers at them when they ditch their own party early to hide in Bitty’s guestroom and Kent flips them off with the hand that isn’t cupped around Bitty’s ass.

They don’t touch again for the rest of the night.

 

~*~

 

A Thursday night in late October, Bitty shoulders into the apartment where Kent and Jack are cuddling, Chinese takeout waiting on the coffee table, and flops onto the couch with a groan.

“Uh, rough day?” Kent guesses, dumping some rice onto a plate and sliding it down the table.

Bitty looks up long enough to spoon orange chicken on top of his rice and then shoves his face back down into the couch cushion. “I swear we just filmed for ten hours straight. My new producer is  _ so _ —bless his fuckin’ heart, there’s only so many ways I can crack an  _ egg.  _ My feet are so sore I could cry.”

Jack perks up at that, like a fucking hunting dog with a scent. “Roll over.”

Bitty lifts his head cautiously. “What?”

Kent rolls his eyes and grabs at the remote. “Jack’s greatest joy in life is massaging feet. He likes it better than  _ hockey.” _

“Do not,” Jack grumbles weakly, already shoving Kent farther down the couch so he can reach Bitty’s feet.

Bitty flips over to lay on his back and props his feet up in Jack’s lap, which drapes his legs across Kent’s thighs. His eyes practically roll back into his head when Jack digs his thumbs into the arch of his foot—the fucking  _ moan _ he makes is—yeah, Kent shifts deeper against the couch, so Bitty’s calves don’t brush against his dick.

“Lord,” Bitty says, arm thrown over his eyes. “You’re sure good at things you like, aren’t you, Mr. Zimmermann?”

Jack shares a private, rueful smile with Kent. “Sometimes it takes me a while.”

Bitty hums. “Mm, what’re we watchin’, anyway?”

Kent clears his throat and gestures the remote at the TV, suddenly self-conscious. “Uh.”

“Oh, um—” Bitty looks up at the television, where  _ Sweet Home, Alabama  _ is queued up on Netflix. He swallows thickly, teeth worrying at his bottom lip, and doesn’t say anything else.

“I thought, uh—” Kent clears his throat awkwardly. “We said we would, so—uh, if you don’t want—”

_ “Crazy, Stupid, Love’s  _ not on Netflix,” Bitty says. He pulls his foot out of Jack’s hands and rests it on Kent’s thigh.

Jack says, “We’ve got it on DVD.”

Bitty’s lip is a little puffy, from the way he’s biting at it. Kent wants to press his thumb into it, catch against his teeth. “We should start now, then. If—we wanna have time for both.”

“Uh, yeah,” Kent agrees, and presses play.

Bitty smiles shakily, and slides his foot back into Jack’s lap without another word.

 

~*~

 

They blow through the two movies with almost no break in between, except for Kent tweeting their progress and Jack getting up to make a bowl of popcorn. After  _ Crazy, Stupid, Love  _ ends, it’s getting pretty late and Bitty stretches, back arching off the couch, and moves to leave.

“Wait,” Jack says half-chirpingly, “don’t I get to pick a movie?”

Kent hesitates, feeling awkward, but when he looks over Bitty’s smiling.

“Oh, um—sure,” Bitty answers, glancing down at his phone. “I, uh—I guess I can stay for another one. What’s your favorite movie?”

Kent says,  _ “Pretty Woman,”  _ before Jack can answer for himself, and Bitty laughs.

“Because your mom was in it?” he teases.

Kent confirms, “Yeah, definitely,” at the same time Jack defensively answers, “Uh, no!”

Kent’s already queueing it up on Netflix, though, and Jack sighs but grabs himself a throw blanket off the armchair nearby to get comfortable with.

“Wait, we should get a selfie,” Kent says, grabbing his phone off the coffee table. “C’mere, Bitty.”

Bitty huffs at having to get up, but he slides over to Kent and Jack’s end of the couch and—presses surprisingly close to Kent’s side, tucking under his arm to fit neatly in the frame. Jack shifts away slightly—just enough to make it look less like Kent’s head hasn’t been on his shoulder all night—and Kent snaps a pretty good picture of the three of them cuddled up.

**_@realkvp90 (10:42 pm):_ ** _ Look who decided to make it a triple feature @omgcheckplease @jlzimmermann _

Jack snorts and mutters, “Triple feature,” under his breath. Kent digs an elbow into his ribs.

Bitty retweets the picture and then drops his phone off to the side, and Kent waits for the moment he moves away—braces himself for it, honestly, for how his chest aches every time the charade drops and he remembers what it’s really like.

Bitty’s teeth are dug into his bottom lip. He stares at the TV, fingers tapping anxiously on his knee, and sinks down into the couch so his head rests on Kent’s chest.

Kent’s breath catches in his throat and his eyes flutter shut. He’s sure Bitty can hear his heartbeat.

Jack pries the remote out of Kent’s hand and presses play.

 

~*~

 

Kent walks Bitty to the door after the movie ends, rocking back and forth on his heels, like—probably like a teenager dropping his date off after prom, if he’d gone to his. He clears his throat and says, “So, uh—I was thinking next week we could—”

“I can’t do this anymore!” Bitty blurts, probably louder than he meant to because Kent hears Jack’s startled crash into the coffee table.

Kent takes a step back too, mostly in confusion. “I—what—?”

“We have to—we need to break— _ have  _ the break-up, Kent,” Bitty says, the words spilling out in such a desperate rush Kent can barely process them. “You won your home-opener—it’s almost November—I can’t—we can’t keep doing this, okay? It’s not fair—”

“Wait,” Kent begs, reaches out and stops himself like—he’s not sure what would happen. But he can’t— “Just, hang on—maybe we could—”

_ “No,  _ okay?” Bitty brings a hand up to his face and sucks in an audible, shaky breath. “I can’t—my mom won’t stop asking about Thanksgiving and she’s never—she’s never wanted to meet anyone before, okay? And it’s—it’s a  _ sham  _ and I can’t—she deserves— _ I  _ deserve better than that. I want my  _ life  _ back, Kent!”

It hurts like his ribs are peeling away from his spine—stretching out his chest until they rip in every direction. It hurts more than he can find words for—hurts more than he can speak around. It hurts maybe more than anything ever has.

Kent whispers, “Okay. Okay, just—send a statement to PR or something. Just—please leave.”

Bitty’s eyes are wet, broken, shattered things. He nods, and goes.

_ “Fuck,”  _ Kent sobs, and when he turns around Jack is already there to crash into. He presses his face into Jack’s chest and tries not to cry too loudly and mostly fucks that up miserably, too.

Jack strokes a soothing hand through Kent’s hair and asks, “Why didn’t you tell him?”

“What—?”

“Kenny,” Jack pushes gently, “I know—it’s okay.”

Kent smears tears into Jack’s shirt. “I—you heard him—he doesn’t—”

Jack pulls away and tips Kent’s face up by his chin, wipes at the wetness on his cheeks. “Where’s the Parse who kissed me in Rimouski?”

Kent swallows thickly, searching Jack’s face for—anything. “Still scared fucking shitless he’s gonna lose you again.”

“I think—” Jack smiles wryly “—there’s enough of him to go around.”

There’s nothing in Jack’s face but warm blue eyes and the soft crinkles around his smile.

Kent runs.

 

~*~

 

Bitty is already outside the apartment building when Kent catches up to him, halfway to his car with his arms wrapped around himself while he walks, and he jumps when he hears the desperate pounding of Kent’s footsteps.

“Bitty—wait!” Kent stops running a short distance away, panting more from the adrenaline than actual exertion.

Bitty freezes but doesn’t turn around. His eyes are fixed downwards, at his shoes. “Kent, I can’t—”

The streets aren’t crowded but there are groups of people walking home from the bar down the block, and Kent wouldn’t even notice them except for the fact that some of them are turning to look and he knows he can’t have an audience—not for this.

“Just—come inside with me for a second? Please.”

Bitty turns his head and asks, voice shaking, “Why?”

Kent breathes out a rush of air and gestures at the people who are glancing over with curiosity. “This isn’t for them.”

It feels like forever, maybe, before Bitty says, “Okay,” and follows Kent back into the building. As soon as they’re inside, he turns to Kent like he’s about to argue again and—

Kent kisses the hurt out of his mouth—licks at the teeth-sore spots on his bottom lip—reaches up with shaking hands to brush his fingers across the tears welling in the corners of his eyes.

“I want you to have your life back,” Kent tells him softly—earnestly—begs him to believe. “I just—wanna be in it. It was—this was never an act for me—not really. I’m not—I’m not pretending to feel—”

Bitty meets his gaze with wide eyes, quivering lips. He curls his hands into Kent’s shirt slowly, like he can’t remember how to hold the fabric between his fingers, and manages to choke out, “God—you’re still such an asshole,” before he kisses Kent back.

Bitty’s kisses taste like popcorn salt and bruised mouths—like things that sting and hurt in all the best ways—and his teeth are there in Kent’s bottom lip and his hands are in Kent’s hair, and Kent lifts him up against the wall like they could melt into each other, if they just pressed close enough.

It’s the roll of hips and breathless laughter and still turning bright red, after all this time, when the doorman clears his throat and they realize he’s been watching.

It’s Bitty scraping his teeth against Kent’s jaw anyway and wrapping his legs tighter around Kent’s waist when he tries to put him down.

“I’m not—I’m not pretending either,” Bitty whispers, and presses his face down into Kent’s neck, like he’s ashamed. “I—tried so hard to be. I’m sorry I couldn’t—that I didn’t—”

“It’s okay,” Kent murmurs. He shifts his weight to nuzzle his nose into Bitty’s hair. “No more secrets now, yeah?”

“Yeah.” Bitty lifts his head to kiss Kent again, slow and deep. He asks, “What about Jack?” when he pulls away, sounding—not unconcerned, but maybe like he kinda already knows the answer.

“He, uh—says he wants to work it out,” Kent answers, pausing to suck Bitty’s earlobe into his mouth, rocking his hips forward a little. “If you want.”

“Okay,” Bitty agrees breathlessly, hands still tightened in Kent’s hair. “Let’s go—do that.”

Kent grins and catches Bitty in one more kiss before he leads him back upstairs—and nips with his teeth when he pulls away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all my weekly readers for journeying through this fic with me! Stay tuned next week for a little epilogue <3


	9. Barstool Sports: The Life with Kent Parson

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for going on this journey with me!! Enjoy a fluffy epilogue <3

“Welcome to Barstool Sports’ ‘The Life!’ I’m your guest host, Cassandra Park,” Cassandra says, smiling at the camera. “Today, I’ll have the honor of conducting the first interview with NHL All-Star and You Can Play advocate Kent Parson, since his marriage to his husband Eric Bittle. Let’s get a sneak peek at their apartment.”

Cassandra knocks on the door, which is opened after a slight delay by Jack Zimmermann. He’s dressed casually, in a white t-shirt and basketball shorts, and seems very confused. “Ah, hello? I—think Bitty forgot you were coming.”

“We…just spoke to him on the phone this morning?” Cassandra supplies, making a face at the cameraman, who shrugs, jostling the shot.

Zimmermann’s frown deepens. He mutters, “Then why is he—?” then raises his voice to shout towards the kitchen, “Bits!”

A familiar blond head pokes around the corner, sporting a bright smile. Eric Bittle greets them with a cheerful wave, explaining, “Oh, goodness! Hi, everyone. I lost track of time just a bit—Kenny!—I’m just wrappin’ somethin’ up in the kitchen for y’all and I’ll be right out.”

Apparently at the sound of his name, Kent Parson comes careening down the hallway—crashing into Zimmermann to come to a stop—and smiles winningly at Cassandra. With his hand still on his teammate’s back, he says, “Hey, guys. We’ll start the tour and Bit—Er—” he breaks off and asks Zimmermann under his breath, “Is he going by Bitty?”

Zimmermann shrugs unhelpfully, which causes Parson to roll his eyes. “Bitty,” he decides, “is gonna join us in a sec, ‘kay?”

They finally step into the apartment fully and the cameraman gets a nice shot panning around the foyer, which is open to the living room and connects to the kitchen through a large archway. Cassandra says, “Wow, Kent—can I call you Kent?—this is a beautiful place.”

“Thanks!” Parson answers cheerfully. “Jack knows how to pick ‘em.”

They head towards the living room as Cassandra comments, “Speaking of which—you guys caused quite the stir when Eric decided to move into your bachelor pad with Jack instead of finding a new place together.”

“It’s got a good kitchen,” Zimmermann deadpans, which—must mean something to the two of them, because Parson snorts under his breath.

“I’m—sure we’ll see that next,” Cassandra says. She clears her throat awkwardly and teases, “So, Jack—now that Kent and Eric are settling down—when’re you gonna move out and give these two lovebirds some space?”

Eric’s voice rings out pleasantly as he wanders in from the kitchen. “Oh, no—I think we’re keepin’ him.” He pats Zimmermann on the arm and leans across him to greet his husband with a long, chaste kiss, then turns back to Cassandra and the crew. “Sorry to keep y’all waitin’. I got myself in a tizzy, convinced I had time to make a pie, and, well—it should be cool enough by the time y’all’re ready to leave.”

“That sounds awesome, thanks, Eric!”

“Oh, please—call me Bitty,” Bitty corrects, already turning around to lead them through the living room—apparently taking over the tour from Parson and Zimmermann, who follow behind him dutifully. “So, this is where we spend most of our time, to be honest—can you blame a man, with that TV?”

Cassandra, personally, can’t, and she tells Bitty as much—netting her a bright laugh in return. The furniture is semi-modern but homey, everything about it emanating comfort. “I have to say—this place feels more…lived in than most of the players’ homes we visit.”

Bitty laughs again. “I’m from the South—if I don’t make you wanna put your feet up and stay for a glass of tea, I’ve committed a cardinal sin of some sort, I think.”

“So this is all Er—Bitty’s decorating?” Cassandra prompts, at the same time Bitty claps his hands and darts off with a breezy,  _ ‘Speakin’ of which!’ _

Parson looks over at Zimmermann and shrugs. “Mostly? I think some of this was—”

“Bunny? Do you know where that dang tray went?”

Parson’s eyebrows furrow in thought. “One sec, babe!”

He hurries off into the kitchen, presumably to help Bitty, which leaves Zimmermann alone in front of the camera. He stares at them awkwardly for a full five seconds before he clears his throat and explains, “Ah, the couch and stuff is new, but the entertainment system and most of the shelving is mine. Here, we keep—”

“Here, y’all!” Bitty and Parson re-emerge from the kitchen with a tray of glasses and a pitcher of what looks like sweet tea. “Help yourselves.”

Cassandra and the cameraman both take glasses, and Zimmermann waits politely for them to serve themselves before he continues, “Ah, over here we keep a lot of books and trophies and stuff—a lot of these are textbooks.”

“Textbooks?” Cassandra prompts. She takes a sip of her tea, makes a pleased face, and takes a longer drink.

Zimmermann hums. “Me and Parse started taking online classes last year, to uh—get our degrees.”

“That’s pretty ambitious of you,” Cassandra observes. “I wouldn’t think either of you need a second career after hockey.”

Parson chuckles, leaning in to wrap an arm around Bitty’s waist. He nuzzles affectionately at Bitty’s temple and murmurs, “Gotta keep up with our college grad over here, before he figures out he’s too good for us.”

Bitty turns an endearing shade of pink and protests, “Stop, you charmer,” but accepts a kiss from him anyway, sighing deep into it.

“Should we do the kitchen?” Zimmermann asks, reaching over to ruffle Bitty’s hair with a small smile on his face.

“Mm, sure,” Bitty agrees, slipping away from Parson as he does so and following Zimmermann into the spacious kitchen.

“Wow,” Cassandra breathes, stepping to the side to make sure the camera gets a full video of the granite countertops and sparkling appliances. “So I guess this is your domain, Bitty?”

Bitty hums and shrugs with one shoulder as he reaches over to test the temperature of a pie cooling on the counter. “I’d say I share custody with Jack. Kenny’s not allowed in here without supervision, though.”

“Hey!” Parson protests, glaring at Zimmermann when he laughs. “I help make our anniversary dinner  _ every year.” _

“And I’ve also caught you tryin’ to microwave spaghetti, bunny.” Bitty kisses Parson on the cheek sweetly, which may be patronizing or affectionate—judging by Parson’s flustered reaction, probably both.

“Well, it must be nice to have someone to share the cooking with, since it’s also your job,” Cassandra observes. “Your show is one of the most popular on the Food Network these days.”

Bitty blushes and waves her off with a hand. “Oh, I don’t know about that—”

“His show’s wildly successful because he’s fantastic,” Parson cuts in, and this time both his arms wrap around Bitty’s waist as he hugs him from behind. “Thanks for noticing.”

“Kent!” Bitty protests—at the praise or the physical affection, it’s hard to say—but he leans back against Parson’s chest anyway, apparently distracted for a few moments before he seems to notice the camera again. “Oh, um—guess we should show y’all the rest of the apartment, right?”

He laughs breezily, slipping his hand into Kent’s instead of pulling away fully, and leads the small caravan through the kitchen and towards the bedrooms. “So, this is the master—I sorta bullied Jack into lettin’ me redecorate.”

“You, bully? Never,” Zimmermann deadpans, and Bitty swats at him with the hand that isn’t holding his husband’s. Zimmermann catches him by the wrist and smirks—it’s strange to see him smile so much.

“Um, wow, a California King?” Cassandra asks, taking in the giant bed that dominates even the spacious room. The bedspread is simple and tasteful, with matching curtains and a rug spread over the hardwood floors.

Parson offers up a smirk of his own. “Hockey players take up a lotta space.”

Cassandra raises an eyebrow at the cameraman, who shrugs at her again. “Um, right—well, there’s only one of you, though?”

“Bitty played in college,” Zimmermann corrects her mildly, even though he’s still watching Bitty and not the camera.

Bitty mentions, “You’ll be beside yourself at this closet!” apparently done with that line of conversation, pushing lightly at Zimmermann’s chest before he moves away.

The closet  _ is _ really nice.

They look into an office space next, which is entirely littered with cat toys and furniture—towering, well-worn pieces with built-in scratching posts. “I work from home here sometimes,” Bitty explains, “but it’s mostly where Kit stays when company’s makin’ her anxious.”

“I was wondering if we’d get to meet her,” Cassandra ventures, craning her head to get a better view of the room.

Parson shakes his head. “Nah, she doesn’t like new people that much. She probably won’t come out at all until you leave.”

“And this is the guest bedroom,” Bitty says, leading them into the last room in the apartment.

“Um,” Cassandra tilts her head. “Don’t you mean—isn’t this where Jack sleeps?”

“Sometimes!” Bitty answers cheerfully.

“…Right,” Cassandra says slowly. “Well, you guys are travelling for games a lot anyway. I guess you’re used to sleeping all over the place.”

Zimmermann’s expression is serious—eyes bright and focused. “That’s really an unfair assumption about hockey culture.”

Parson presses his lips together and his shoulders shake a little. “We’re super particular about where we sleep.”

Cassandra looks between the two of them, mouth slightly open in confusion, as the resulting silence lingers.

“Boys,” Bitty says, his tongue clicking a little in a way that seems to draw their attention immediately, “help me serve this pie?”

“’Course, babe,” Kent complies, an easy grin spreading across his face, and they all trail back into the kitchen.

They chat more about the apartment and married life as they eat—the pie is, predictably, delicious, and Bitty blushes modestly and bites at his bottom lip when Cassandra and the cameraman both shower him in compliments.

“You know,” Cassandra says, after watching Parson steal yet another kiss from his husband in front of the camera, “I can’t help but point out how openly affectionate you are with each other—which is great! Do you think it’s a product of getting together so publicly, on the set of Big Brother?”

Bitty hums thoughtfully, resting his cheek on Parson’s shoulder. “I—think for me, yes. Being this open—I grew up in Georgia, and I don’t think it should come as a surprise I haven’t always been this…comfortable, with affection. And bein’ on the show helped with that, but—it’s also Kenny.” He pauses here, looking up at his husband with raw affection glittering in his eyes. “That’s always been one of my favorite things about him.”

Parson clears his throat, apparently overcome with emotion. Zimmermann rests a hand on the back of his neck—a small gesture that seems to have a calming effect—and Parson says, “I, uh—you know, they give you a lot of media training in the NHL—which, I ignore like seventy percent of, but—it’s always about, like—what parts of yourself you want to share with the world.”

He clears his throat again, pressing a kiss to Bitty’s forehead, and then turns to Zimmermann with a soft smile on his face. “I think the world deserves to see how I feel about the people I love.”

The room is quiet with a heavy energy that no one seems willing to break. After a few moments, Cassandra pushes her empty plate away and tells them, “Well, I think that’s everything we need!”

They take a few more shots of the apartment for the video while Parson takes their plates and quickly washes them in the sink, just for good measure (“My very important contribution to the cooking process,” he cheekily informs her, winking at the camera), and then Bitty insists on sending the crew home with the rest of the pie, which is an offer they’re certainly not above turning down.

At last, the three men walk Cassandra and the cameraman to the door to say their goodbyes. Cassandra lets Parson know that Barstool will give his agent a heads up before the episode goes online, and thanks them all for their time as she leaves.

They pause in the hallway to pack up the last of their equipment, Cassandra undoing the mic box clipped to the back of her dress and slipping out of her heels for a more comfortable pair of shoes.

The last thing the camera hears is the soft murmur of warm voices through the door, and the sound of a lock sliding home. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This epilogue is 3000% inspired by Tyler Seguin fucking with the Barstool Sports reporter in [this interview](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AsFevAUGJkc)

**Author's Note:**

> Come find me [on Tumblr <3](http://www.yoursummerfrost.tumblr.com)


End file.
